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TALES  OF  FISHES 


Books  by 
ZANE  GREY 

TALES  OF  FISHES 

THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 

WILDFIRE 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 

THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 

THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 

THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 

DESERT  GOLD 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 
RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 
THE  YOUNG  FORESTER 
THE  YOUNG  PITCHER 
THE  YOUNG  LION-HUNTER 
KEN  WARD  IN  THE  JUNGLE 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 
Established  1817 


TALES  of  FISHES 


by 

Zane  Grey 

President  of  the  Long  Key  Fishing  Club 
Honorable  President  of  the  Tuna  Club  of  Avalon 
Author  of 

"TheU.  P.  Trail"  "The  Desert  of  Wheat"  Etc. 


Illustrated  from  photographs 
by  the  author 


HARPER  62  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
New  York  and  London 


Tales  of  Fishes 


Copyright  1910,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
Published  June,  iqiq 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

Verses   0 

I.  Byme-by-Tarpon   1 

II.  The  Island  of  the  Dead   8 

III.  The  Royal  Purfle  Game  of  the  Sea  ....  26 

IV.  Two  Fights  with  Swordfish   54 

V.  Sailfish   72 

VI.  Gulf  Stream  Fishing   88 

VII.  BONEFISH   107 

VIII.  Some  Rare  Fish   136 

IX.  SWORDFISH   153 

Xo       The  Gladiator  of  the  Sea   180 

XI.  Seven  Marlin  Swordfish  in  One  Day    .    .    .  197 

XII.  Random  Notes   216 

XIII.  Big  Tuna   221 

XIV.  AVALON,  THE  BEAUTIFUL   250 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Great  Colored  Rollers  of  the  Pacific     .    .    .  Frontispiece 

Tarpon  Throwing  Hook   Facing  p.  2 

Leaping  Tarpon  .  "  3 

Savalo,  or  Silver  King   '*  4 

These  Wild  Fowl  Have  the  Wonderful  Beauty  and 

Speed  of  Falcons   "  5 

Rabihorcado   '*  12 

The  Boobies  Had  No  Fear  of  Man,  but  Both  Young 

and  Old  Would  Pick  with  Their  Sharp  Bills    .  "  13 

Young  Boobies   **  14 

Suggestive  of  a  Wild,  Wind-swept  Island  of  the  Sea  **  15 

Nests  Everywhere  in  the  Sand  and  Moss    ....  "  16 
These  Huge  Black  Rabihorcados  Were  the  Largest 

Species  of  Frigate  or  Man-of-war  Bird  ...  17 

Rabihorcado  Rising  from  Their  Eggs   "  20 

Boobies  of  Isla  de  la  Muerte  in  the  Caribbean  Sea  '  *  21 
A  Swordfish  Leaping  off  the  Bold  Black  Shore  of 

Clemente   "  28 

On  the  Rampage   "  29 

Swordfish  on  the  Surface   "  32 

Holding  Hard   "  33 

A  Clean  Greyhound  Leap   "  36 

316-pound  Swordfish   "  37 

The  Wild-oats  Slope  of  Clemente   "  44 

Where  the  Deep-blue  Swell  Booms  Against  the  Lava 

Wall  of  Clemente  Island                                 .  "  45 

Four  Marlin  Swordfish  in  One  Day   M  68 

A  Big  Sailfish  Breaking  Water   "  69 

Four  Sailfish  in  One  Day  on  Light  Tackle     ...  "  76 

Sailfish  Threshing  on  the  Surface   "  77 

Memorable  of  Long  Key   "  84 

Leaping  Sailfish   **  85  \ 

Solitude  on  the  Sea   "  92 

Sunset  by  the  Sea   *'  93 

Twin  Tigers  of  the  Sea — the  Savage  Barracuda  .    .  **  98 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Happy  Pastime  of  Bonefishing  Facing  p.  99 

The  Gamest  Fish  That  Swims   "  110 

A  Wahoo   "  111 

At  Long  Key,  the  Lonely  Coral  Shore  Where  the  Sun 
Shines  White  All  Day  and  the  Stars  Shine  White 

All  Night   M  144 

The  Famous  Stunt  of  a  Marlin  Swordfish,  "Walking 

on  His  Tail"  v   M  145 

Surging  in  a  Half-circle   "  148 

Broadbill  Swordfish   on   the  Surface — the  Most 

Thrilling  Sight  to  a  Sea  Angler   "  149 

Shining  in  the  Sunlight   "  156 

Throwing  White  Water  Like  the  Explosion  of  a 

Torpedo   "  157 

A  Long,  Slim  Sailfish  Wiggling  in  the  Air  ....  "  160 

Fighting  a  Broadbill  Swordfish   "  161 

The  Only  Photograph  Ever  Taken  of  Leaping  Broad- 
bill Swordfish   "  180 

Xiphias  Gladius,  the  Broadsworded  Gladiator  of  the 

Sea      .    .   "  181 

A  Straightaway  Greyhound  Leap,  Marvelous  for  Its 

Speed  and  Wildness   "  188 

Like  a  Leaping  Specter   "  189 

Walking  on  His  Tail   "  192 

A  Magnificent  Flashing  Leap.    This  Perfect  Picture 
Considered  by  Author  to  Be  Worth  His  Five 

Years'  Labor  and  Patience   "  193 

Tired  Out — the  Last  Slow  Heave   '*  196 

Hauled  Aboard  with  Block  and  Tackle   "  197 

It.  C.  On  the  Job  .    "  204 

304  Pounds   M  205 

R.  C.  Grey  and  Record  Marlin   "  205 

328-pound  Record  Marlin  by  R.  C.  Grey.  Shapeliest 

and  Most  Beautiful  Specimen  Ever  Taken    .    .  "  208 

Sunset  Over  Clemente  Channel   M  209 

A  Blue-finned  Plugger  of  the  Deep — 138-pound  Tuna  m  244 

Avalon,  the  Beautiful   "  245 

The  Old  Avalon  Barge  Where  the  Gulls  Fish  and 

Scream   "  252 

The  End  of  the  Day  off  Catalina  Island    ....  "  253 

Seal  Rocks   "  264 


ZANE  GREY 


By  W.  Livingston  Earned 

Been  to  Avalon  with  Grey  .  .  .  been  most  everywhere; 
Chummed  with  him  and  fished  with  him  in  every  Sportsman's 
lair. 

Helped  him  with  the  white  Sea-bass  and  Barracuda  haul, 
Shared  the  Tuna's  sprayful  sport  and  heard  his  Hunter-call, 
Me  an'  Grey  are  fishin?  friends  .  .  .  Pals  of  rod  and  reel, 
Whether  it's  the  sort  that  fights  ...  or  th'  humble  eel, 
On  and  on,  through  Wonderland  .  .  .  winds  a-blowin'  free, 
Catching  all  th'  fins  that  grow  .  .  .  Sportsman  Grey  an'  Me. 

Been  to  Florida  with  Zane  .  .  .  scouting  down  th'  coast; 
Whipped  the  deep  for  Tarpon,  too,  that  natives  love  th'  most. 
Seen  the  smiling,  Tropic  isles  that  pass,  in  green  review, 
Gathered  cocoanut  and  moss  where  Southern  skies  were  blue. 
Seen  him  laugh  that  boyish  laugh,  when  things  were  goin' 
right; 

Helped  him  beach  our  little  boat  and  kindle  fires  at  night. 
Comrades  of  the  Open  Way,  the  Treasure-Trove  of  Sea, 
Port  Ahoy  and  who  cares  where,  with  Mister  Grey  an'  Me! 

Been  to  Western  lands  with  Grey  .  .  .  hunted  fox  and  deer. 
Seen  the  Grizzly's  ugly  face  with  danger  lurkin'  near. 
Slept  on  needles,  near  th*  sky,  and  marked  th'  round  moon 
rise 

Over  purpling  peaks  of  snow  that  hurt  a  fellow's  eyes. 
Gone,  like  Indians,  under  brush  and  to  some  mystic  place — 
Home  of  red  men,  long  since  gone,  to  join  their  dying  race. 
Yes  .  .  .  we've  chummed  it,  onward — outward  .  .  .  mountain, 

wood,  and  Key, 
At  the  quiet  readin'-table  .  •  .  Sportsman  Grey  an'  Me. 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


i 

BYME-BY-TARPON 

TO  capture  the  fish  is  not  all  of  the  fishing.  Yet 
there  are  circumstances  which  make  this 
philosophy  hard  to  accept.  I  have  in  mind  an  in- 
cident of  angling  tribulation  which  rivals  the  most 
poignant  instant  of  my  boyhood,  when  a  great  trout 
flopped  for  one  sharp  moment  on  a  mossy  stone 
and  then  was  gone  like  a  golden  flash  into  the 
depths  of  the  pool. 

Some  years  ago  I  followed  Attalano,  my  guide, 
down  the  narrow  Mexican  street  of  Tampico  to  the 
bank  of  the  broad  Panuco.  Under  the  rosy  dawn  the 
river  quivered  like  a  restless  opal.  The  air,  sweet 
with  the  song  of  blackbird  and  meadowlark,  was  full 
of  cheer;  the  rising  sun  shone  in  splendor  on  the 
water  and  the  long  line  of  graceful  palms  lining  the 
opposite  bank,  and  the  tropical  forest  beyond,  with 
its  luxuriant  foliage  festooned  by  gray  moss.  Here 
was  a  day  to  warm  the  heart  of  any  fisherman;  here 
was  the  beautiful  river,  celebrated  in  many  a  story; 

here  was  the  famous  guide,  skilled  with  oar  and 
l  i 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


gaff,  rich  in  experience.  What  sport  I  would  have; 
what  treasure  of  keen  sensation  would  I  store;  what 
flavor  of  life  would  I  taste  this  day!  Hope  burns 
always  in  the  heart  of  a  fisherman. 

Attalano  was  in  harmony  with  the  day  and  the 
scene.  He  had  a  cheering  figure,  lithe  and  erect, 
with  a  springy  stride,  bespeaking  the  Montezuma 
blood  said  to  flow  in  his  Indian  veins.  Clad  in  a 
colored  cotton  shirt,  blue  jeans,  and  Spanish  girdle, 
and  treading  the  path  with  brown  feet  never  de- 
formed by  shoes,  he  would  have  stopped  an  artist. 
Soon  he  bent  his  muscular  shoulders  to  the  oars, 
and  the  ripples  circling  from  each  stroke  hardly 
disturbed  the  calm  Panuco.  Down  the  stream 
glided  long  Indian  canoes,  hewn  from  trees  and  laden 
with  oranges  and  bananas.  In  the  stern  stood  a 
dark  native  wielding  an  enormous  paddle  with  ease. 
Wild-fowl  dotted  the  glassy  expanse;  white  cranes 
and  pink  flamingoes  graced  the  reedy  bars;  red- 
breasted  kingfishers  flew  over  with  friendly  screech. 
The  salt  breeze  kissed  my  cheek;  the  sun  shone  with 
the  comfortable  warmth  Northerners  welcome  in 
spring;  from  over  the  white  sand-dunes  far  below 
came  the  faint  boom  of  the  ever-restless  Gulf. 

We  trolled  up  the  river  and  down,  across  from 
one  rush-lined  lily-padded  shore  to  the  other,  for 
miles  and  miles  with  never  a  strike.  But  I  was  con- 
tent, for  over  me  had  been  cast  the  dreamy,  care- 
dispelling  languor  of  the  South. 

When  the  first  long,  low  swell  of  the  changing  tide 
rolled  in,  a  stronger  breeze  raised  little  dimpling 
waves  and  chased  along  the  water  in  dark,  quick- 
moving  frowns.    All  at  once  the  tarpon  began  to 

i 


LEAPING  TARPON 


BYME-BY-TARPON 


show,  to  splash,  to  play,  to  roll.  It  was  as  though 
they  had  been  awakened  by  the  stir  and  murmur  of 
the  miniature  breakers.  Broad  bars  of  silver  flashed 
in  the  sunlight,  green  backs  cleft  the  little  billows, 
wide  tails  slapped  lazily  on  the  water.  Every  yard 
of  river  seemed  to  hold  a  rolling  fish.  This  sport 
increased  until  the  long  stretch  of  water,  which  had 
been  as  calm  as  St.  Regis  Lake  at  twilight,  resembled 
the  quick  current  of  a  Canadian  stream.  It  was 
a  fascinating,  wonderful  sight.  But  it  was  also 
peculiarly  exasperating,  because  when  the  fish  roll 
in  this  sportive,  lazy  way  they  will  not  bite.  For  an 
hour  I  trolled  through  this  whirlpool  of  flying  spray 
and  twisting  tarpon,  with  many  a  salty  drop  on  my 
face,  hearing  all  around  me  the  whipping  crash  of 
breaking  water. 

"Byme-by-tarpon,"  presently  remarked  Attalano, 
favoring  me  with  the  first  specimen  of  his  English. 

The  rolling  of  the  tarpon  diminished,  and  finally 
ceased  as  noon  advanced. 

No  more  did  I  cast  longing  eyes  upon  those  huge 
bars  of  silver.  They  were  buried  treasure.  The 
breeze  quickened  as  the  flowing  tide  gathered 
strength,  aAd  together  they  drove  the  waves  higher. 
Attalano  rowed  across  the  river  into  the  outlet  of 
one  of  the  lagoons.  This  narrow  stream  was  un- 
ruffled by  wind;  its  current  was  sluggish  and  its 
muddy  waters  were  clarifying  under  the  influence 
of  the  now  fast-rising  tide. 

By  a  sunken  log  near  shore  we  rested  for  lunch. 
I  found  the  shade  of  the  trees  on  the  bank  rather 
pleasant,  and  became  interested  in  a  blue  heron,  a 
russet-colored  duck,  and  a  brown-and-black  snipe, 

3 


TALES  OP  FISHES 


all  sitting  on  the  sunken  log.  Near  by  stood  a  tall 
crane  watching  us  solemnly,  and  above  in  the  tree- 
top  a  parrot  vociferously  proclaimed  his  knowledge 
of  our  presence.  I  was  wondering  if  he  objected  to 
our  invasion,  at  the  same  time  taking  a  most  wel- 
come bite  for  lunch,  when  directly  in  front  of  me 
the  water  flew  up  as  if  propelled  by  some  submarine 
power.  Framed  in  a  shower  of  spray  I  saw  an  im- 
mense tarpon,  with  mouth  agape  and  fins  stiff, 
close  in  pursuit  of  frantically  leaping  little  fish. 

The  fact  that  Attalano  dropped  his  sandwich 
attested  to  the  large  size  and  close  proximity  of  the 
tarpon.  He  uttered  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  and 
pushed  out  the  boat.  A  school  of  feeding  tarpon 
closed  the  mouth  of  the  lagoon.  Thousands  of 
mullet  had  been  cut  off  from  their  river  haunts  and 
were  now  leaping,  flying,  darting  in  wild  haste  to 
elude  the  great  white  monsters.  In  the  foamy 
swirls  I  saw  streaks  of  blood. 

"Byme-by-tarpon!"  called  Attalano,  warningly. 

Shrewd  guide!  I  had  forgotten  that  I  held  a  rod. 
When  the  realization  dawned  on  me  that  sooner  or 
later  I  would  feel  the  strike  of  one  of  these  silver 
tigers  a  keen,  tingling  thrill  of  excitement  quivered 
over  me.  The  primitive  man  asserted  himself;  the 
instinctive  lust  to  conquer  and  to  kill  seized  me, 
and  I  leaned  forward,  tense  and  strained  with 
suspended  breath  and  swelling  throat. 

Suddenly  the  strike  came,  so  tremendous  in  its 

energy  that  it  almost  pulled  me  from  my  seat;  so 

quick,  fierce,  bewildering  that  I  could  think  of 

nothing  but  to  hold  on.    Then  the  water  split  with 

a  hissing  sound  to  let  out  a  great  tarpon,  long  as  a 

4 


SAVALO,   OR  SILVER  KING 


THESE  WILD  FOWL  HAVE  THE  WONDERFUL  BEAUTY  AND  SPEED  OF  FALCONS 


BYME-BY-TARPON 


door,  seemingly  as  wide,  who  shot  up  and  up  into 
the  air.  He  wagged  his  head  and  shook  it  like  a 
struggling  wolf.  When  he  fell  back  with  a  heavy 
splash,  a  rainbow,  exquisitely  beautiful  and  delicate, 
stood  out  of  the  spray,  glowed,  paled,  and  faded. 

Five  times  he  sprang  toward  the  blue  sky,  and  as 
many  he  plunged  down  with  a  thunderous  crash. 
The  reel  screamed.  The  line  sang.  The  rod,  which 
I  had  thought  stiff  as  a  tree,  bent  like  a  willow  wand. 
The  silver  king  came  up  far  astern  and  sheered  to 
the  right  in  a  long,  wide  curve,  leaving  behind  a 
white  wake.  Then  he  sounded,  while  I  watched 
the  line  with  troubled  eyes.  But  not  long  did  he 
sulk.  He  began  a  series  of  magnificent  tactics  new 
in  my  experience.  He  stood  on  his  tail,  then  on 
his  head;  he  sailed  like  a  bird;  he  shook  himself  so 
violently  as  to  make  a  convulsive,  shuffling  sound; 
he  dove,  to  come  up  covered  with  mud,  marring  his 
bright  sides;  he  closed  his  huge  gills  with  a  slap 
and,  most  remarkable  of  all,  he  rose  in  the  shape  of 
a  crescent,  to  straighten  out  with  such  marvelous 
power  that  he  seemed  to  actually  crack  like  a  whip. 

After  this  performance,  which  left  me  in  a  con- 
dition of  mental  aberration,  he  sounded  again,  to 
begin  a  persistent,  dragging  pull  which  was  the  most 
disheartening  of  all  his  maneuvers;  for  he  took  yard 
after  yard  of  line  until  he  was  far  away  from  me, 
out  in  the  Panuco.  We  followed  him,  and  for  an 
hour  crossed  to  and  fro,  up  and  down,  humoring 
him,  responding  to  his  every  caprice,  as  if  he  verily 
were  a  king.  At  last,  with  a  strange  inconsistency 
more  human  than  fishlike,  he  returned  to  the  scene 
of  his  fatal  error,  and  here  in  the  mouth  of  the 

5 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


smaller  stream  he  leaped  once  more.  But  it  was 
only  a  ghost  of  his  former  efforts — a  slow,  weary 
rise,  showing  he  was  tired.  I  could  see  it  in  the 
weakening  wag  of  his  head.  He  no  longer  made  the 
line  whistle. 

I  began  to  recover  the  long  line.  I  pumped  and 
reeled  him  closer.  Reluctantly  he  came,  not  yet 
broken  in  spirit,  though  his  strength  had  sped.  He 
rolled  at  times  with  a  shade  of  the  old  vigor,  with  a 
pathetic  manifestation  of  the  temper  that  became 
a  hero.  I  could  see  the  long,  slender  tip  of  his  dorsal 
fin,  then  his  broad  tail  and  finally  the  gleam  of  his 
silver  side.  Closer  he  came  and  slowly  circled  around 
the  boat,  eying  me  with  great,  accusing  eyes.  I 
measured  him  with  a  fisherman's  glance.  What  a 
great  fish!  Seven  feet,  I  calculated,  at  the  very 
least. 

At  this  triumphant  moment  I  made  a  horrible 
discovery.  About  six  feet  from  the  leader  the 
strands  of  the  line  had  frayed,  leaving  only  one  thread 
intact.  My  blood  ran  cold  and  the  clammy  sweat 
broke  out  on  my  brow.  My  empire  was  not  won; 
my  first  tarpon  was  as  if  he  had  never  been.  But 
true  to  my  fishing  instincts,  I  held  on  morosely; 
tenderly  I  handled  him;  with  brooding  care  I  riveted 
my  eye  on  the  frail  place  in  my  line,  and  gently, 
ever  so  gently,  I  began  to  lead  the  silver  king 
shoreward.  Every  smallest  move  of  his  tail  meant 
disaster  to  me,  so  when  he  moved  it  I  let  go  of  the 
reel.  Then  I  would  have  to  coax  him  to  swim  back 
again. 

The  boat  touched  the  bank.    I  stood  up  and 

carefully  headed  my  fish  toward  the  shore,  and  slid 

6 


"  B  YME-B  Y-T  ARPON  " 

his  head  and  shoulders  out  on  the  lily-pads.  One 
moment  he  lay  there,  glowing  like  mother-of-pearl, 
a  rare  fish,  fresh  from  the  sea.  Then,  as  Attalano 
warily  reached  for  the  leader,  he  gave  a  gasp,  a 
flop  that  deluged  us  with  muddy  water,  and  a  lunge 
that  spelled  freedom. 

I  watched  him  swim  slowly  away  with  my  bright 
leader  dragging  beside  him.  Is  it  not  the  loss  of 
things  which  makes  life  bitter?  What  we  have 
gained  is  ours;  what  is  lost  is  gone,  whether  fish,  or 
use,  or  love,  or  name,  or  fame. 

I  tried  to  put  on  a  cheerful  aspect  for  my  guide. 
But  it  was  too  soon.  Attalano,  wise  old  fellow, 
understood  my  case.  A  smile,  warm  and  living, 
flashed  across  his  dark  face  as  he  spoke: 

"  Byme-by-tarpon." 

Which  defined  his  optimism  and  revived  the  fail- 
ing spark  within  my  breast.  It  was,  too,  in  the 
nature  of  a  prophecy. 


II 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  DEAD 

STRANGE  wild  adventures  fall  to  the  lot  of  a 
fisherman  as  well  as  to  that  of  a  hunter.  On 
board  the  Monterey,  from  Havana  to  Progreso, 
Yucatan,  I  happened  to  fall  into  conversation  with 
an  English  globe-trotter  who  had  just  come  from 
the  Mont  Pel£e  eruption.  Like  all  those  wandering 
Englishmen,  this  one  was  exceedingly  interesting. 
We  exchanged  experiences,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  in- 
deed much  to  see  and  learn  of  the  romantic  Old 
World. 

In  Merida,  that  wonderful  tropic  city  of  white 
towers  and  white  streets  and  white-gowned  women, 
I  ran  into  this  Englishman  again.  I  wanted  to 
see  the  magnificent  ruins  of  Uxmal  and  Ake  and 
Labna.  So  did  he.  I  knew  it  would  be  a  hard  trip 
from  Muna  to  the  ruins,  and  so  I  explained.  He 
smiled  in  a  way  to  make  me  half  ashamed  of  my 
doubts.  We  went  together,  and  I  found  him  to  be 
a  splendid  fellow.  We  parted  without  knowing  each 
other's  names.  I  had  no  idea  what  he  thought  of 
me,  but  I  thought  he  must  have  been  somebody. 

While  traveling  around  the  coast  of  Yucatan  I 
had  heard  of  the  wild  and  lonely  Alacranes  Reef 

8 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  DEAD 


where  lighthouse-keepers  went  insane  from  solitude, 
and  where  wonderful  fishes  inhabited  the  lagoons. 
That  was  enough  for  me.  Forthwith  I  meant  to 
go  to  Alacranes. 

Further  inquiry  brought  me  meager  but  fascinat- 
ing news  of  an  island  on  that  lonely  coral  reef, 
called  Isla  de  la  Muerte  (the  Island  of  the  Dead). 
Here  was  the  haunt  of  a  strange  bird,  called  by 
Indians  rabihorcado,  and  it  was  said  to  live  off  the 
booby,  another  strange  sea-bird.  The  natives  of 
the  coast  solemnly  averred  that  when  the  ra&i- 
horcado  could  not  steal  fish  from  the  booby  he  killed 
himself  by  hanging  in  the  brush.  I  did  not  believe 
such  talk.  The  Spanish  appeared  to  be  rabi,  mean- 
ing rabies,  and  horcar,  to  hang. 

I  set  about  to  charter  a  boat,  and  found  the  great 
difficulty  in  procuring  one  to  be  with  the  Yucatecan 
government.  No  traveler  had  ever  before  done  such 
a  thing.  It  excited  suspicion.  The  officials  thought 
the  United  States  was  looking  for  a  coaling-station. 
Finally,  through  the  help  of  the  Ward  line  agent  and 
the  consul  I  prevailed  upon  them  to  give  me  such 
papers  as  appeared  necessary.  Then  my  Indian 
boatmen  interested  a  crew  of  six,  and  I  chartered  a 
two-masted  canoe-shaped  bark  called  the  Xpit. 

The  crew  of  the  Hispaniola,  with  the  never-to-be- 
forgotten  John  Silver  and  the  rest  of  the  pirates  of 
Treasure  Island,  could  not  have  been  a  more  vil- 
lainous and  piratical  gang  than  this  of  the  bark 
Xpit.  I  was  advised  not  to  take  the  trip  alone. 
But  it  appeared  impossible  to  find  any  one  to  ac- 
company me.  I  grew  worried,  yet  determined  not 
to  miss  the  opportunity. 

9 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


Strange  to  relate,  as  I  was  conversing  on  the  dock 
with  a  ship  captain  and  the  agent  of  the  Ward  line, 
lamenting  the  necessity  of  sailing  for  Alacranes 
alone,  some  one  near  by  spoke  up,  "Take  me!" 

In  surprise  I  wheeled  to  see  my  English  acquaint- 
ance who  had  visited  the  interior  of  Yucatan  with 
me.  I  greeted  him,  thanked  him,  but  of  course  did 
not  take  him  seriously,  and  I  proceeded  to  expound 
the  nature  of  my  venture.  To  my  further  surprise, 
he  not  only  wanted  to  go,  but  he  was  enthusiastic. 

"But  it's  a  hard,  wild  trip,"  I  protested.  "Why, 
that  crew  of  barefooted,  red-shirted  Canary-Islanders 
have  got  me  scared!    Besides,  you  don't  know  me!" 

"Well,  you  don't  know  me,  either,"  he  replied, 
with  his  winning  smile. 

Then  I  awoke  to  my  own  obtuseness  and  to  the 
fact  that  here  was  a  real  man,  in  spite  of  the  signif- 
icance of  a  crest  upon  his  linen. 

"If  you'll  take  a  chance  on  me  I'll  certainly  take 
one  on  you,"  I  replied,  and  told  him  who  I  was,  and 
that  the  Ward-line  agent  and  American  consul 
would  vouch  for  me. 

He  offered  his  hand  with  the  simple  reply,  "My 
name  is  C  ." 

If  before  I  had  imagined  he  was  somebody,  I  now 
knew  it.  And  that  was  how  I  met  the  kindest  man, 
the  finest  philosopher,  the  most  unselfish  comrade, 
the  greatest  example  and  influence  that  it  has  ever 
been  my  good  fortune  to  know  upon  my  trips  by 
land  or  sea.  I  learned  this  during  our  wonderful 
trip  to  the  Island  of  the  Dead.  He  never  thought 
of  himself.  Hardship  to  him  was  nothing.  He  had 
no  fear  of  the  sea,  nor  of  men,  nor  of  death.  It 

10 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  DEAD 


seemed  he  never  rested,  never  slept,  never  let  any- 
body do  what  he  could  do  instead. 

That  night  we  sailed  for  Alacranes.  It  was  a 
white  night  of  the  tropics,  with  a  million  stars 
blinking  in  the  blue  dome  overhead,  and  the  Carib- 
bean Sea  like  a  shadowed  opal,  calm  and  rippling 
and  shimmering.  The  Xpit  was  not  a  bark  of 
comfort.  It  had  a  bare  deck  and  an  empty  hold. 
I  could  not  stay  below  in  that  gloomy,  ill-smelling 
pit,  so  I  tried  to  sleep  on  deck.  I  lay  on  a  hatch 
under  the  great  boom,  and  what  with  its  creaking, 
and  the  hollow  roar  of  the  sail,  and  the  wash  of  the 
waves,  and  the  dazzling  starlight,  I  could  not  sleep. 
C.  sat  on  a  coil  of  rope,  smoked,  and  watched  in 
silence.    I  wondered  about  him  then. 

Sunrise  on  the  Caribbean  was  glorious  to  behold 
— a  vast  burst  of  silver  and  gold  over  a  level  and 
wrinkling  blue  sea.  By  day  we  sailed,  tacking  here 
and  there,  like  lost  mariners  standing  for  some  far- 
off  unknown  shore.  That  night  a  haze  of  clouds 
obscured  the  stars,  and  it  developed  that  our  red- 
shirted  skipper  steered  by  the  stars.  We  indeed 
became  lost  mariners.  They  sounded  with  a  greased 
lead  and  determined  our  latitude  by  the  color  and 
character  of  the  coral  or  sand  that  came  up  on  the 
lead.  Sometimes  they  knew  where  we  were  and  at 
others  they  did  not  have  any  more  idea  than  had  I. 

On  the  second  morning  out  we  reached  Alacranes 

lighthouse;  and  when  I  saw  the  flat  strip  of  sand, 

without  a  tree  or  bush  to  lend  it  grace  and  color, 

the  bleak  lighthouse,  and  the  long,  lonely  reaches 

of  barren  reefs  from  which  there  came  incessant 

moaning,  I  did  not  wonder  that  two  former  light- 

11 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


house-keepers  had  gone  insane.  The  present  keeper 
received  me  with  the  welcome  always  accorded  a 
visitor  to  out-of-the-world  places.  He  corroborated 
all  that  my  Indian  sailors  had  claimed  for  the 
rabihorcado,  and  added  the  interesting  information 
that  lighthouse-keepers  desired  the  extinction  of  the 
birds  because  the  guano,  deposited  by  them  on  the 
roofs  of  the  keepers'  houses,  poisoned  the  rain  water 
— all  they  had  to  drink. 

I  climbed  the  narrow,  spiral  stair  to  the  lighthouse 
tower,  and  there,  apparently  lifted  into  the  cloud- 
navigated  sky,  I  awakened  to  the  real  wonder  of 
coral  reefs.  Ridges  of  white  and  brown  showed 
their  teeth  against  the  crawling,  tireless,  insatiate 
sea.  Islets  of  dead  coral  gleamed  like  bleached  bone, 
and  beds  of  live  coral,  amber  as  wine,  lay  wreathed 
in  restless  surf.  From  near  to  far  extended  the 
rollers,  the  curving  channels,  and  the  shoals,  all 
colorful,  all  quivering  with  the  light  of  jewels. 
Golden  sand  sloped  into  the  gray-green  of  shallow 
water,  and  this  shaded  again  into  darker  green, 
which  in  turn  merged  into  purple,  reaching  away  to 
the  far  barrier  reef,  a  white  wall  against  the  blue, 
heaving  ocean. 

The  crew  had  rowed  us  ashore  with  my  boatmen 
Manuel  and  Augustine.  And  then  the  red-shirted 
captain  stated  he  would  like  to  go  back  to  Progreso 
and  return  for  us  at  our  convenience.  Hesitating 
over  this,  I  finally  gave  permission,  on  the  promise 
that  he  would  bring  back  the  Xpit  in  one  week. 

So  they  sailed  away,  and  left  us  soon  to  find  out 

that  we  were  marooned  on  a  desert  island.    When  I 

saw  how  C.  took  it  I  was  glad  of  our  enforced  stay. 

12 


I 


THE  BOOBIES  HAD  NO  FEAR  OF  MAN,   BUT  BOTH  YOUNG  AND  OLD  WOULD 
PICK  WITH  THEIR  SHARP  BILLS 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  DEAD 


Solitude  and  loneliness  pervaded  Alacranes.  Of  all 
the  places  I  had  visited,  this  island  was  the  most 
hauntingly  lonely. 

It  must  have  struck  C.  the  same  way,  and  even 
more  powerfully  than  it  had  me.  He  was  a  much 
older  man,  and,  though  so  unfailingly  cheerful  and 
helpful,  he  seemed  to  me  to  desire  loneliness.  He 
did  not  fish  or  shoot.  His  pleasure  appeared  to  be 
walking  the  strand,  around  and  around  the  little 
island,  gathering  bits  of  coral  and  shells  and  sea- 
weeds and  strange  things  cast  up  by  the  tides.  For 
hours  he  would  sit  high  on  the  lighthouse  stairway 
and  gaze  out  over  the  variegated  mosaic  of  colored 
reefs.  My  bed  was  a  hammock  in  the  loft  of  the 
keeper's  house  and  it  hung  close  to  an  open  door. 
At  night  I  woke  often,  and  I  would  look  out  upon 
the  lonely  beach  and  sea.  When  the  light  flashed 
its  long  wheeling  gleam  out  into  the  pale  obscurity 
of  the  night  it  always  showed  C.'s  dark  figure  on  the 
lonely  beach.  I  got  into  the  habit  of  watching  for 
him,  and  never,  at  any  time  I  happened  to  awake, 
did  I  fail  to  see  him  out  there.  How  strange  he 
looms  to  me  now!  But  I  thought  it  was  natural 
then.  The  loneliness  of  that  coral  reef  haunted  me. 
The  sound  of  the  sea,  eternally  slow  and  sad  and 
moaning,  haunted  me  like  a  passion.  Men  are  the 
better  for  solitude. 

Our  bark,  the  Xpit,  did  not  come  back  for  us. 
Day  by  day  we  scanned  the  heaving  sea,  far  out 
beyond  the  barrier  reef,  until  I  began  to  feel  like 
Crusoe  upon  his  lonely  isle.  We  had  no  way  to 
know  then  that  our  crew  had  sailed  twice  from 
Progreso,  getting  lost  the  first  time,  and  getting 

13 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


drunk  the  second,  eventually  returning  to  the  home 
port.    Some  misfortunes  turn  out  to  be  blessings. 

What  adventures  I  had  at  Alacranes!  But,  alas! 
I  cannot  relate  a  single  story  about  really  catching 
a  fish.  There  were  many  and  ferocious  fish  that 
would  rush  any  bait  I  tried,  only  I  could  not  hold 
them.  My  tackle  was  not  equal  to  what  it  is  now. 
Perhaps,  however,  if  it  had  been  it  would  have  been 
smashed  just  the  same. 

In  front  of  the  lighthouse  there  had  been  built  a 
little  plank  dock,  running  out  twenty  yards  or  so. 
The  water  was  about  six  feet  deep,  and  a  channel 
of  varying  width  meandered  between  the  coral  reefs 
out  to  the  deep  blue  sea.  This  must  have  been  a 
lane  for  big  fish  to  come  inside  the  barrier.  Almost 
always  there  were  great  shadows  drifting  around  in 
the  water.  First  I  tried  artificial  baits.  Some  one, 
hoping  to  convert  me,  had  given  me  a  whole  box 
of  those  ugly,  murderous  plug-baits  made  famous  by 
Robert  H.  Davis.  Whenever  I  made  a  cast  with 
one  of  these  a  big  fish  would  hit  it  and  either  strip 
the  hooks  off  or  break  my  tackle.  Some  of  these 
fish  leaped  clear.  They  looked  like  barracuda  to 
me,  only  they  were  almost  as  silvery  as  a  tarpon. 
One  looked  ten  feet  long  and  as  big  around  as  a 
telegraph  pole.  When  this  one  smashed  the  water 
white  and  leaped,  Manuel  yelled,  "Pecuda!"  I  tried 
hard  to  catch  a  specimen,  and  had  a  good  many 
hooked,  but  they  always  broke  away.  I  did  not 
know  then,  as  I  know  now,  that  barracuda  grow 
to  twelve  feet  in  the  Caribbean.  That  fact  is  men- 
tioned in  records  and  natural  histories. 

Out  in  the  deeper  lagoons  I  hooked  huge  fish  that 

14 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  DEAD 


swam  off  ponderously,  dragging  the  skiff  until  my 
line  parted.  Once  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  see 
one,  which  fact  dispelled  any  possibility  of  its  being 
a  shark.  Manuel  called  it  "  Cherna!"  It  looked  like 
a  giant  sea-bass  and  would  have  weighed  at  least 
eight  hundred  pounds.  The  color  was  lighter  than 
any  sea-bass  I  ever  studied.  My  Indian  boatmen 
claimed  this  fish  was  a  man-eater  and  that  he  and  his 
crew  had  once  fought  one  all  day  and  then  it  broke 
away.  The  fish  I  saw  was  huge  enough  to  swallow 
a  man,  that  was  certain.  I  think  this  species  must 
have  been  the  great  June-fish  of  the  Gulf.  I  hooked 
one  once  at  the  mouth  of  the  Panuco  River  in  Mexico 
and  it  nearly  swamped  the  boat. 

Soon  my  tackle  was  all  used  up,  and,  for  want  of 
better,  I  had  to  use  tiny  hooks  and  thread  lines — 
because  I  was  going  to  fish,  by  hook  or  crook !  This 
method,  however,  which  I  learned  first  of  all,  is  not 
to  be  despised.  Whenever  I  get  my  hand  on  a 
thin,  light,  stiff  reed  pole  and  a  long,  light  line 
of  thread  with  a  little  hook,  then  I  revert  to  boyhood 
days  and  sunfish  and  chubs  and  shiners  and  bull- 
heads. Could  any  fisherman  desire  more  joy? 
Those  days  are  the  best. 

The  child  is  father  of  the  man 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

In  the  shallow  water  near  the  dock  there  always 
floated  a  dense  school  of  little  fish  like  sardines. 
They  drifted*  floated,  hovered  b'eside  the  dock,  and 
when  one  of  the  big  fish  would  rush  near  they 
would  make  a  breaking  roar  on  the  surface.  Of 

15 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


me  they  evinced  no  fear  whatever.  But  no  bait, 
natural  or  artificial,  that  I  could  discover,  tempted 
them  to  bite.  This  roused  my  cantankerous  spirit 
to  catch  some  of  those  little  fish  or  else  fall  inesti- 
mably in  my  own  regard.  I  noted  that  whenever  I 
cast  over  the  school  it  disintegrated.  A  circle  wi- 
dened from  the  center,  and  where  had  been  a  black 
mass  of  fish  was  only  sand.  But  as  my  hook  settled  to 
the  bottom  the  dark  circle  narrowed  and  closed  until 
the  school  was  densely  packed  as  before.  Where- 
upon I  tied  several  of  the  tiny  hooks  together  with 
a  bit  of  lead,  and,  casting  that  out,  I  waited  till 
all  was  black  around  my  line,  then  I  jerked.  I 
snagged  one  of  the  little  fish  and  found  him  to  be 
a  beautiful,  silvery,  flat-sided  shiner  of  unknown 
species  to  me.  Every  cast  I  made  thereafter  caught 
one  of  them.  And  they  were  as  good  to  eat  as  a 
sardine  and  better  than  a  mullet. 

My  English  comrade,  C,  sometimes  went  with 
me,  and  when  he  did  go,  the  interest  and  kindly 
curiosity  and  pleasure  upon  his  face  were  a  constant 
source  of  delight  to  me.  I  knew  that  I  was  as  new 
a  species  to  him  as  the  little  fish  were  to  me.  But 
C.  had  become  so  nearly  a  perfectly  educated  man 
that  nothing  surprised  him,  nothing  made  him  won- 
der. He  sympathized,  he  understood,  he  could  put 
himself  in  the  place  of  another.  What  worried  me, 
however,  was  the  simple  fact  that  he  did  not  care 
to  fish  or  shoot  for  the  so-called  sport  of  either.  I 
think  my  education  on  a  higher  plane  began  at  Ala- 
cranes,  in  the  society  of  that  lonely  Englishman. 
Somehow  I  have  gravitated  toward  the  men  who 
have  been  good  for  me. 

16 


2 

H 
w 

H 

IP 

H 
W 

a 

H 
W 


a 

M 
0 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  DEAD 


But  C.  enjoyed  action  as  well  as  contemplation. 
Once  out  on  the  shoals  when  Manuel  harpooned  a 
huge  hawk-bill  turtle — the  valuable  species  from 
which  the  amber  shell  is  derived — we  had  a  thrilling 
and  dangerous  ride.  For  the  turtle  hauled  us  at  a 
terrific  rate  through  the  water.  Then  C.  joined  in 
with  the  yells  of  the  Indians.  He  was  glad,  how- 
ever, when  the  turtle  left  us  stranded  high  upon  a 
coral  bed. 

On  moonlight  nights  when  the  tide  was  low  C. 
especially  enjoyed  wading  on  the  shoals  and  hunting 
for  the  langustas,  or  giant  lobsters.  This  was  excit- 
ing sport.  We  used  barrel-hoops  with  nets,  and 
when  we  saw  a  lobster  shining  in  the  shallow  water 
we  waded  noiselessly  close  to  swoop  down  upon  him 
with  a  great  splash.  I  was  always  afraid  of  these 
huge  crayfish,  but  C.  was  not.  His  courage  might 
have  been  predatory,  for  he  certainly  liked  to  eat 
lobster.  But  he  had  a  scare  one  night  when  a  devil- 
fish or  tremendous  ray  got  between  him  and  the 
shore  and  made  the  water  fly  aloft  in  a  geyser.  It 
was  certainly  fun  for  me  to  see  that  dignified  Eng- 
lishman make  tracks  across  the  shoal. 

To  conclude  about  C,  when  I  went  on  to  Mexico 
City  with  him  I  met  friends  of  his  there,  a  lord  and 
a  duke  traveling  incognito.  C.  himself  was  a  peer  of 
England  and  a  major  in  the  English  army.  But  I 
never  learned  this  till  we  got  to  Tampico,  where 
they  went  with  me  for  the  tarpon-fishing.  They 
were  rare  fine  fellows.  L.,  the  little  Englishman, 
could  do  anything  under  the  sun,  and  it  was  from 
him  I  got  my  type  for  Castleton,  the  Englishman, 
in  The  Light  of  Western  Stars.    I  have  been  told 

2  17 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


that  never  was  there  an  Englishman  on  earth  like 
the  one  I  portrayed  in  my  novel.  But  my  critics 
never  fished  with  Lord  L.! 

These  English  friends  went  with  me  to  the  station 
to  bid  me  good-by  and  good  luck.  We  were  to  part 
there,  they  to  take  ship  for  London,  and  I  to  take 
train  for  the  headwaters  of  the  Panuco  River,  down 
which  unknown  streams  I  was  to  find  my  way  through 
jungle  to  the  Gulf.  Here  I  was  told  that  C.  had 
lost  his  only  son  in  the  Boer  War,  and  since  then 
had  never  been  able  to  rest  or  sleep  or  remain  in 
one  place.  That  stunned  me,  for  I  remembered 
that  he  had  seemed  to  live  only  to  forget  himself, 
to  think  of  others.  It  was  a  great  lesson  to  me. 
And  now,  since  I  have  not  heard  from  him  during 
the  four  years  of  the  world  war,  I  seem  to  divine 
that  he  has  "gone  west";  he  has  taken  his  last 
restless,  helpful  journey,  along  with  the  best  and 
noblest  of  England's  blood. 

Because  this  fish-story  has  so  little  of  fish  in  it 
does  not  prove  that  a  man  cannot  fish  for  other  game 
than  fish.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy  that  I 
went  with  my  brother — the  R.  C.  and  the  Reddy 
of  the  accompanying  pages — to  fish  for  bass  at  Dil- 
lon's Falls  in  Ohio.  Alas  for  Bill  Dilg  and  Bob 
Davis,  who  never  saw  this  blue-blooded  home  of 
bronze-back  black-bass!  In  the  heat  of  the  day  my 
brother  and  I  jabbed  our  poles  into  the  bank,  and 
set  off  to  amuse  ourselves  some  other  way  for  a 
while.  When  we  returned  my  pole  was  pulled  down 
and  wabbling  so  as  to  make  a  commotion  in  the 
water.    Quickly  I  grasped  it  and  pulled,  while 

18 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  DEAD 

Reddy  stared  wide-eyed  and  open-mouthed.  Surely 
a  big  bass  had  taken  my  bait  and  hooked  him- 
self. Never  had  I  felt  so  heavy  and  strong  a  bass! 
The  line  swished  back  and  forth;  my  pole  bent 
more  and  more  as  I  lifted.  The  water  boiled  and 
burst  in  a  strange  splash.  Then!  a  big  duck 
flew,  as  if  by  magic,  right  out  from  before  us. 
So  amazed  was  I  that  he  nearly  pulled  the  pole 
out  of  my  hands.  Reddy  yelled  wildly.  The  duck 
broke  the  line  and  sped  away.  .  .  .  That  moment 
will  never  be  forgotten.  It  took  us  so  long  to 
realize  that  the  duck  had  swallowed  my  minnow, 
hooked  himself,  and  happened  to  be  under  the 
surface  when  we  returned. 

So  the  point  of  my  main  story,  like  that  of  the 
above,  is  about  how  I  set  out  to  catch  fish,  and, 
failing,  found  for  such  loss  abundant  recompense. 

Manuel  and  Augustine,  my  Indian  sailors,  em- 
barked with  me  in  a  boat  for  the  Island  of  the  Dead. 
Millions  of  marine  creatures  swarmed  in  the  laby- 
rinthine waterways.  Then,  as  we  neared  the  land, 
"  Rabihorcadol"  exclaimed  Manuel,  pointing  to  a 
black  cloud  hovering  over  the  island. 

As  we  approached  the  sandy  strip  I  made  it  out 

to  be  about  half  a  mile  long,  lying  only  a  few  feet 

above  the  level  of  the  sea.    Hundreds  of  great,  black 

birds  flew  out  to  meet  us  and  sailed  over  the  boat, 

a  sable-winged,  hoarse-voiced  crowd.    When  we 

beached  I  sprang  ashore  and  ran  up  the  sand  to  the 

edge  of  green.    The  whole  end  of  the  island  was 

white  with  birds — large,  beautiful,  snowy  birds  with 

shiny  black  bars  across  their  wings. 

19 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


"  Boobies,"  said  Manuel  and  motioned  me  to  go 
forward. 

They  greeted  our  approach  with  the  most  discord- 
ant din  it  had  ever  been  my  fortune  to  hear.  A 
mingling  of  honk  and  cackle,  it  manifested  not  excite- 
ment so  much  as  curiosity.  I  walked  among  the 
boobies,  and  they  never  moved  except  to  pick  at 
me  with  long,  sharp  bills.  Many  were  sitting  on 
nests,  and  all  around  in  the  sand  were  nests  with 
eggs,  and  little  boobies  just  hatched,  and  others  in 
every  stage  of  growth,  up  to  big  babies  of  birds  like 
huge  balls  of  pure  white  wool.  I  wondered  where  the 
thousands  of  mothers  were.  The  young  ones  showed 
no  concern  when  I  picked  them  up,  save  to  dig  into 
me  with  curious  bilks. 

I  saw  an  old  booby,  close  by,  raise  his  black-barred 
wings,  and,  flapping  them,  start  to  run  across  the 
sand.  In  this  way  he  launched  himself  into  the  air 
and  started  out  to  sea.  Presently  I  noticed  several 
more  flying  away,  one  at  a  time,  while  others  came 
sailing  back  again.  How  they  could  sail!  They 
had  the  swift,  graceful  flight  of  a  falcon. 

For  a  while  I  puzzled  over  the  significance  of  this 
outgoing  and  incoming.  Shortly  a  bird  soared 
overhead,  circled  with  powerful  sweep,  and  alighted 
within  ten  feet  of  me.  The  bird  watched  me  with 
gray,  unintelligent  eyes.  They  were  stupid,  un- 
canny eyes,  yet  somehow  so  fixed  and  staring  as  to 
seem  accusing.  One  of  the  little  white  balls  of  wool 
waddled  up  and,  rubbing  its  fuzzy  head  against  the 
booby,  proclaimed  the  filial  relation.  After  a  few 
rubs  and  wabbles  the  young  bird  opened  wide  its 

bill  and  let  out  shrill  cries.    The  mother  bobbed 

20 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  DEAD 


up  and  down  in  evident  consternation,  walked  away, 
came  back,  and  with  an  eye  on  me  plainly  sought 
to  pacify  her  fledgling.  Suddenly  she  put  her  bill 
far  down  into  the  wide-open  bill,  effectually  stifling 
the  cries.  Then  the  two  boobies  stood  locked  in 
amazing  convulsions.  The  throat  of  the  mother 
swelled,  and  a  lump  passed  into  and  down  the  throat 
of  the  young  bird.  The  puzzle  of  the  flying  boobies 
was  solved  in  the  startling  realization  that  the 
mother  had  returned  from  the  sea  with  a  fish  in 
her  stomach  and  had  disgorged  it  into  the  gullet 
of  her  offspring. 

I  watched  this  feat  performed  dozens  of  times, 
and  at  length  scared  a  mother  booby  into  with- 
drawing her  bill  and  dropping  a  fish  on  the  sand. 
It  was  a  flying-fish  fully  ten  inches  long.  I  inter- 
rupted several  little  dinner-parties,  and  in  each  case 
found  the  disgorged  fish  to  be  of  the  flying  species. 
The  boobies  flew  ten,  twenty  miles  out  to  the  open 
sea  for  fish,  while  the  innumerable  shoals  that  lay 
around  their  island  were  alive  with  sardine  and 
herring  J 

I  had  raised  a  tremendous  row;  so,  leaving  the 
boobies  to  quiet  down,  I  made  my  way  toward  the 
flocks  of  rabihorcados.  Here  and  there  in  the  thick 
growth  of  green  weed  were  boobies  squatting  on 
isolated  nests.  No  sooner  had  I  gotten  close  to  the 
rabihorcados  than  I  made  sure  they  were  the  far- 
famed  frigate  pelicans,  or  man-of-war  birds.  They 
were  as  tame  as  the  boobies;  as  I  walked  among 
them  many  did  not  fly  at  all.  Others  rose  with 
soft,  swishing  sound  of  great  wings  and  floated  in  a 

circle,  uttering  deep-throated  cries,  not  unlike  the 

21 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


dismal  croak  of  ravens.  Perfectly  built  for  the  air, 
they  were  like  feathers  blown  by  a  breeze.  Light, 
thin,  long,  sharp,  with  enormous  spread  of  wings, 
beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  dead,  blue-black  sheen, 
and  yet  hideous,  too,  with  their  grisly  necks  and  cruel, 
crooked  beaks  and  vulture  eyes,  they  were  surely 
magnificent  specimens  of  winged  creation. 

Nests  of  dried  weeds  littered  the  ground,  and 
eggs  and  young  were  everywhere.  The  little  ones 
were  covered  with  white  down,  and  the  developing 
feathers  on  their  wings  were  turning  black.  They 
squalled  unremittingly,  which  squalling  I  decided 
was  not  so  much  on  my  account  as  because  of  a 
swarm  of  black  flies  that  attacked  them  when  the 
mothers  flew  away.  I  was  hard  put  to  it  myself  to 
keep  these  flies,  large  as  pennies  and  as  flat,  from 
eating  me  alive.  They  slipped  up  my  sleeves  and 
trousers  and  their  bite  made  a  wasp-sting  pleasure 
by  comparison. 

By  rushing  into  a  flock  of  rabihorcados  I  succeeded 
several  times  in  catching  one  in  my  hands.  And 
spreading  it  out,  I  made  guesses  as  to  width  from 
tip  to  tip  of  wings.  None  were  under  seven  feet; 
one  measured  all  of  eight.  They  made  no  strenuous 
resistance  and  regarded  me  with  cold  eyes.  Every 
flock  that  I  put  to  flight  left  several  dozen  little  ones 
squalling  in  the  nests;  and  at  one  place  an  old 
booby  waddled  to  the  nests  and  began  to  maltreat 
the  young  rabihorcados.  Instincts  of  humanity  bade 
me  scare  the  old  brute  away  until  I  happened  to 
remember  the  relation  existing  between  the  two 
species.  Then  I  watched.  With  my  own  eyes  I 
saw  that  grizzled  booby  pick  and  bite  and  wring 

22 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  DEAD 


those  poor  little  birds  with  a  grim  and  deadly  de- 
liberation. When  the  mothers,  soon  returning,  flut- 
tered down,  they  did  not  attack  the  booby,  but  pro- 
tected their  little  ones  by  covering  them  with  body 
and  wings.  Conviction  came  upon  me  that  it  was 
instinctive  for  the  booby  to  kill  the  parasitical  rabi- 
horcado;  and  likewise  instinctive  for  the  rabihorcado 
to  preserve  the  life  of  the  booby. 

A  shout  from  Manuel  directed  me  toward  the  ex- 
treme eastern  end  of  the  island.  On  the  way  I 
discovered  many  little  dead  birds,  and  the  farther 
I  went  the  more  I  found.  Among  the  low  bushes 
were  also  many  old  rabihorcados,  dead  and  dry. 
Some  were  twisted  among  the  network  of  branches, 
and  several  were  hanging  in  limp,  grotesque,  hor- 
ribly suggestive  attitudes  of  death.  Manuel  had 
all  of  the  Indian's  leaning  toward  the  mystical,  and 
he  believed  the  rabihorcados  had  destroyed  them- 
selves. Starved  they  may  very  well  have  been, 
but  to  me  the  gales  of  that  wind-swept,  ocean  desert 
accounted  for  the  hanging  rabihorcados.  Still,  when 
face  to  face  with  the  island,  with  its  strife,  and  its 
illustration  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  all  that 
Manuel  had  claimed  and  more,  I  had  to  acknowledge 
the  disquieting  force  of  the  thing  and  its  stunning 
blow  to  an  imagined  knowledge  of  life  and  its  secrets. 

Suddenly  Manuel  shouted  and  pointed  westward. 
I  saw  long  white  streams  of  sea-birds  coming  toward 
the  island.  My  glass  showed  them  to  be  boobies. 
An  instant  later  thousands  of  rabihorcados  took  wing 
as  if  impelled  by  a  common  motive.  Manuel  ran 
ahead  in  his  excitement,  turning  to  shout  to  me, 
and  then  to  point  toward  the  wavering,  swelling, 

23 


TALES  OF  FISHES 

white  streams.  I  hurried  after  him,  to  that  end 
of  the  island  where  we  had  landed,  and  I  found  the 
colony  of  boobies  in  a  state  of  great  perturbation. 
All  were  squawking,  flapping  wings,  and  waddling 
frantically  about.  Here  was  fear  such  as  had  not 
appeared  on  my  advent. 

Thousands  of  boobies  were  returning  from  deep- 
sea  fishing,  and  as  they  neared  the  island  they  were 
met  and  set  upon  by  a  swarming  army  of  rabihor- 
cados.  Darting  white  and  black  streaks  crossed  the 
blue  of  sky  like  a  changeful  web.  The  air  was  full 
of  plaintive  cries  and  hoarse  croaks  and  the  windy 
rush  of  wings.  So  marvelous  was  this  scene  of  in- 
credibly swift  action,  of  kaleidoscopic  change,  of 
streaking  lines  and  curves,  that  the  tragedy  at  first 
was  lost  upon  me.  Then  the  shrieking  of  a  booby 
told  me  that  the  robber  birds  were  after  their  prey. 
Manuel  lay  flat  on  the  ground  to  avoid  being  struck 
by  low-flying  birds,  but  I  remained  standing  in  order 
to  see  the  better.  Faster  and  faster  circled  the  pur- 
sued and  pursuers  and  louder  grew  the  cries  and 
croaks.  My  gaze  was  bewildered  by  the  endless, 
eddying  stream  of  birds. 

Then  I  turned  my  back  on  sea  and  beach  where 

this  bee-swarm  confused  my  vision,  and  looked  to 

see  single  boobies  whirling  here  and  there  with  two 

or  three  black  demons  in  pursuit.    I  picked  out  one 

group  and  turned  my  glass  upon  it.    Many  battles 

had  I  seen  by  field  and  stream  and  mountain,  but 

this  unequal  battle  by  sea  eclipsed  all.    The  booby's 

mother  instinct  was  to  get  to  her  young  with  the 

precious  fish  that  meant  life.    And  she  would  have 

been  more  than  a  match  for  any  one  thief.    But  she 

M 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  DEAD 


could  not  cope  successfully  with  two  fierce  rabihor- 
cados;  for  one  soared  above  her,  resting,  watching, 
while  the  other  darted  and  whirled  to  the  attack. 
They  changed,  now  one  black  demon  swooping  down, 
and  then  the  other,  in  calculating,  pitiless  pursuit. 
How  glorious  she  was  in  poise  and  swerve  and  sweep ! 
For  what  seemed  a  long  time  neither  rabihorcado 
touched  her.  What  distance  she  could  have  placed 
between  them  but  for  that  faithful  mother  instinct! 
She  kept  circling,  ever  returning,  drawn  back  toward 
the  sand  by  the  magnet  of  love;  and  the  powerful 
wings  seemed  slowly  to  lose  strength.  Closer  the 
rdbihorcados  swooped  and  rose  and  swooped  again, 
till  one  of  them?  shooting  down  like  a  black  flash, 
struck  her  in  the  back.  The  white  feathers  flew 
away  on  the  wind.  She  swept  up,  appeared  to  pause 
wearily  and  quiver,  then  disgorged  her  fish.  It 
glinted  in  the  sunlight.  The  rabihorcado  dropped  in 
easy,  downward  curve  and  caught  it  as  it  fell. 

So  the  struggle  for  existence  continued  till  I 
seemed  to  see  all  the  world  bef  ore  me  with  its  myriads 
of  wild  creatures  preying  upon  one  another;  the 
spirit  of  nature,  unquenchable  as  the  fires  of  the 
sun,  continuing  ceaseless  and  imperturbable  in  its 
inscrutable  design. 

As  we  rowed  away  I  looked  back.  Sky  of  a  dull 
purple,  like  smoke  with  fire  behind  it,  framed  the 
birds  of  power  and  prey  in  colors  suitable  to  their 
spirit.  My  ears  were  filled  with  the  haunting  sound 
of  the  sea,  the  sad  wash  of  the  surf,  the  harmonious 
and  mournful  music  of  the  Island  of  the  Dead. 


Ill 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 

TO  the  great  majority  of  anglers  it  may  seem 
unreasonable  to  place  swordfishing  in  a  class  by 
itself — by  far  the  most  magnificent  sport  in  the  world 
with  rod  and  reel.  Yet  I  do  not  hesitate  to  make 
this  statement  and  believe  I  can  prove  it. 

The  sport  is  young  at  this  writing — very  little 
has  been  written  by  men  who  have  caught  swordfish. 
It  was  this  that  attracted  me.  Quite  a  number  of 
fishermen  have  caught  a  swordfish.  But  every  one 
of  them  will  have  something  different  to  tell  you 
and  the  information  thus  gleaned  is  apt  to  leave 
you  at  sea,  both  metaphorically  and  actually. 
Quite  a  number  of  fishermen,  out  after  yellowtail, 
have  sighted  a  swordfish,  and  with  the  assistance 
of  heavy  tackle  and  their  boatmen  have  caught  that 
swordfish.  Some  few  men  have  caught  a  small 
swordfish  so  quickly  and  easily  that  they  cannot 
appreciate  what  happened.  On  the  other  hand,  one 
very  large  swordfish,  a  record,  was  caught  in  an 
hour,  after  a  loggy  rolling  about,  like  a  shark,  with- 
out leaping.  But  these  are  not  fighting  swordfish. 
Of  course,  under  any  circumstances,  it  is  an  event 
to  catch  a  swordfish.    But  the  accidents,  the  flukes, 

26 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


the  lucky  stabs  of  the  game,  do  not  in  any  sense 
prove  what  swordfishing  is  or  what  it  is  not. 

In  August,  1914,  I  arrived  at  Avalon  with  tuna 
experience  behind  me,  with  tarpon  experience,  and 
all  the  other  kinds  of  fishing  experience,  even  to 
the  hooking  of  a  swordfish  in  Mexico.  I  am  in- 
clined to  confess  that  all  this  experience  made  me — 
well,  somewhat  too  assured.  Any  one  will  excuse 
my  enthusiasm.  The  day  of  my  arrival  I  met  Par- 
ker, the  genial  taxidermist  of  Avalon,  and  I  started 
to  tell  him  how  I  wanted  my  swordfish  mounted. 
He  interrupted  me:  "Say,  young  fellow,  you  want 
to  catch  a  swordfish  first!"  One  of  the  tuna  boat- 
men gave  me  a  harder  jolt.  He  said:  "Well,  if 
you  fish  steadily  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  maybe  you'll 
get  a  strike.  And  one  swordfish  caught  out  of  ten 
strikes  is  good  work!"  But  Danielson  was  optimis- 
tic and  encouraging,  as  any  good  boatman  ought  to 
be.  If  I  had  not  been  fortunate  enough  to  secure 
Captain  Dan  as  my  boatman,  it  is  certain  that  one 
of  the  most  wonderful  fishing  experiences  on  record 
would  have  fallen  to  some  other  fisherman,  instead 
of  to  me. 

We  went  over  to  Clemente  Island,  which  is  thirty- 
six  miles  from  Catalina  Island.  Clemente  is  a  moun- 
tain rising  out  of  the  sea,  uninhabited,  lonely,  wild, 
and  beautiful.    But  I  will  tell  about  the  island  later. 

The  weather  was  perfect,  the  conditions  were  ap- 
parently ideal.  I  shall  never  forget  the  sight  of  the 
first  swordfish,  with  his  great  sickle-shaped  tail  and 
his  purple  fin.  Nor  am  I  likely  to  forget  my  disap- 
pointment when  he  totally  ignored  the  flying-fish 
bait  we  trolled  before  him. 

27 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


That  experience  was  but  a  forerunner  to  others 
just  like  it.  Every  day  we  sighted  one  or  more 
swordfish.  But  we  could  not  get  one  to  take  hold. 
Captain  Dan  said  there  was  more  chance  of  getting 
a  strike  from  a  swordfish  that  was  not  visible  roll- 
ing on  the  surface.  Now  a  flying-fish  bait  makes 
a  rather  heavy  bait  to  troll;  and  as  it  is  impera- 
tive to  have  the  reel  free  running  and  held  lightly 
with  the  thumb,  after  a  few  hours  such  trolling  be- 
comes hajd  work.  Hard  as  it  was,  it  did  not  wear  on 
me  like  the  strain  of  being  always  ready  for  a  strike. 
I  doubt  if  any  fisherman  could  stand  this  strain. 

In  twenty-one  days  I  had  seen  nineteen  sword- 
fish,  several  of  which  had  leaped  playfully,  or  to 
shake  off  the  remoras — parasite,  blood-sucking  little 
fish— and  the  sight  of  every  one  had  only  served  to 
increase  my  fascination.  By  this  time  I  had 
realized  something  of  the  difficult  nature  of  the 
game,  and  I  had  begun  to  have  an  inkling  of  what 
sport  it  might  be.  During  those  twenty-one  days 
we  had  trolled  fifteen  hundred  miles,  altogether,  up 
and  down  that  twenty-five-mile  coast  of  rugged 
Clemente.  And  we  had  trolled  round  these  fish  in 
every  conceivable  way.  I  cannot  begin  to  describe 
my  sensations  when  we  circled  round  a  swordfish, 
and  they  grew  more  intense  and  acute  as  the  strain 
and  suspense  dragged.  Captain  Dan,  of  course, 
was  mostly  dominated  by  my  feeling.  All  the  same. 
I  think  the  strain  affected  him  on  his  own  account. 

Then  one  day  Boschen  came  over  to  Clemente 
with  Farnsworth — and  let  me  explain,  by  the  way, 
that  Boschen  is  probably  the  greatest  heavy-tackle 
fisherman  living.    Boschen  would  not  fish  for  any- 

28 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


thing  except  tuna  or  swordfish,  and  up  to  this  visit 
to  Clemente  he  had  caught  many  tuna,  but  only 
one  swordfish,  a  Xiphias.  This  is  the  broadbill,  or 
true,  swordfish;  and  he  is  even  rarer,  and  certainly 
larger  and  fiercer,  than  the  Marlin,  or  roundbill, 
swordfish.  This  time  at  Clemente,  Boschen  caught 
his  first  Marlin  and  it  weighed  over  three  hundred 
pounds,  leaped  clear  into  the  air  sixty-three  times, 
and  gave  a  spectacular  and  magnificent  surface  fight 
that  simply  beggared  description. 

It  made  me  wild  to  catch  one,  of  like  weight  and 
ferocity.  I  spent  several  more  endless  days  in  vain. 
Then  on  the  twenty-fifth  day,  way  off  the  east  end 
of  Clemente,  we  sighted  a  swordfish  with  a  tail 
almost  pink.  He  had  just  come  to  those  waters 
and  had  not  yet  gotten  sunburnt.  We  did  not  have 
to  circle  round  him!  At  long  distance  he  saw  my 
bait,  and  as  he  went  under  I  saw  he  had  headed 
for  it.  I  remember  that  I  shook  all  over.  And 
when  I  felt  him  take  that  bait,  thrill  on  thrill  elec- 
trified me.  Steadily  the  line  ran  off  the  reel.  Then 
Captain  Dan  leaned  over  and  whispered,  hoarsely: 

"When  you  think  he's  had  enough  throw  on  your 
drag  and  strike.  Then  wind  quick  and  strike  again. 
.  .  .  Wind  and  strike!    Keep  it  up  till  he  shows !" 

Despite  my  intense  excitement,  I  was  calm  enough 
to  follow  directions.  But  when  I  struck  I  felt  no 
weight  at  all — no  strain  on  the  line.  Frantically  I 
wound  and  jerked — again  and  again!  I  never  felt 
him  at  all.  Suddenly  my  line  rose — and  then,  be- 
wilderingly  near  the  boat,  when  I  was  looking  far 
off,  the  water  split  with  a  roar  and  out  shot  a  huge, 
gleaming,  white-and-purple  fish.    He  blurred  in  my 

29 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


sight.  Down  he  went  with  a  crash.  I  wound  the 
reel  like  a  madman,  but  I  never  even  half  got  up 
the  slack  line.  The  swordfish  had  run  straight  tow- 
ard the  boat.  He  leaped  again,  in  a  place  I  did  not 
expect,  and  going  down,  instantly  came  up  in  an- 
other direction.  His  speed,  his  savageness,  stunned 
me.  I  could  not  judge  of  his  strength,  for  I  never 
felt  his  weight.  The  next  leap  I  saw  him  sling  the 
hook.  It  was  a  great  performance.  Then  that 
swordfish,  finding  himself  free,  leaped  for  the  open 
sea,  and  every  few  yards  he  came  out  in  a  clean  jump. 
I  watched  him,  too  fascinated  to  count  the  times 
he  broke  water,  but  he  kept  it  up  till  he  was  out  of 
sight  on  the  horizon. 

At  first  Captain  Dan  took  the  loss  harder  than  I 
took  it.  But  gradually  I  realized  what  had  hap- 
pened, and,  though  I  made  a  brave  effort  to  be  game 
and  cheerful,  I  was  sick.  It  did  seem  hard  that, 
after  all  those  twenty-five  days  of  patience  and  hope 
and  toil,  I  could  not  have  hooked  the  swordfish. 
I  see  now  that  it  was  nothing,  only  an  incident,  but 
I  shall  never  forget  the  pang. 

That  day  ended  my  1914  experience.  The  strain 
had  been  too  hard  on  me.  It  had  taken  all  this  time 
for  me  to  appreciate  what  swordfishing  might  be. 
I  assured  Captain  Dan  I  would  come  back  in  1915, 
but  at  the  time  he  did  not  believe  me.    He  said: 

"If  you  hadn't  stuck  it  out  so  long  I  wouldn't 
care.  Most  of  the  fishermen  try  only  a  few  days 
and  never  come  back.    Don't  quit  now!" 

But  I  did  go  back  in  1915.  Long  ago  on  my  lone- 
ly desert  trips  I  learned  the  value  of  companions 

30 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


and  I  dreaded  the  strain  of  this  swordfishing  game. 
I  needed  some  one  to  help  lessen  it.  Besides  that, 
I  needed  snapshot  pictures  of  leaping  swordfish, 
and  it  was  obvious  that  Captain  Dan  and  I  would 
have  our  hands  full  when  a  fish  got  hooked.  We 
had  music,  books,  magazines — everything  that  could 
be  thought  of. 

Murphy,  the  famous  old  Avalon  fisherman  and 
tackle-maker,  had  made  me  a  double  split-bamboo 
rod,  and  I  had  brought  the  much-talked-of  B-Ocean 
reel.  This  is  Boschen's  invention — one  he  was 
years  in  perfecting.  It  held  fifteen  hundred  feet 
of  No.  24  line.  And  I  will  say  now  that  it  is  a  grand 
reel,  the  best  on  the  market.  But  I  did  not  know 
that  then,  and  had  to  go  through  the  trip  with  it, 
till  we  were  both  tried  out.  Lastly,  and  most  im- 
portant, I  had  worked  to  get  into  condition  to  fight 
swordfish.  For  weeks  I  rowed  a  boat  at  home  to 
get  arms  and  back  in  shape,  and  especially  my  hands. 
Let  no  fisherman  imagine  he  cau  land  a  fighting 
swordfish  with  soft  hands! 

So,  prepared  for  a  long,  hard  strain,  like  that  of 
1914,  I  left  Avalon  hopeful,  of  course,  but  serious, 
determined,  and  alive  to  the  possibilities  of  failure. 

I  did  not  troll  across  the  channel  between  the 
islands.  There  was  a  big  swell  running,  and  four 
hours  of  it  gave  me  a  disagreeable  feeling.  Now 
and  then  I  got  up  to  see  how  far  off  Clemente  was. 
And  upon  the  last  of  these  occasions  I  saw  the  fins 
of  a  swordfish  right  across  our  bow.  I  yelled  to 
Captain  Dan.  He  turned  the  boat  aside,  almost  on 
top  of  the  swordfish.  Hurriedly  I  put  a  bait  on 
my  hook  and  got  it  overboard,  and  let  the  line  run. 

31 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


Then  I  looked  about  for  the  swordfish.  He  had 
gone  down. 

It  seemed  then  that,  simultaneously  with  the  re- 
currence of  a  peculiar  and  familiar  disappointment, 
a  heavy  and  powerful  fish  viciously  took  my  bait 
and  swept  away.    I  yelled  to  Captain  Dan: 

"He's  got  it!"  .  .  . 

Captain  Dan  stopped  the  engine  and  came  to  my 
side.    "No!"  he  exclaimed. 

Then  I  replied,  "Look  at  that  line!"  .  .  . 

It  seemed  like  a  dream.  Too  good  to  be  true! 
I  let  out  a  shout  when  I  hooked  him  and  a  yell  of 
joy  when  he  broke  water — a  big  swordfish,  over  two 
hundred  pounds.  What  really  transpired  on  Cap- 
tain Dan's  boat  the  following  few  moments  I  can- 
not adequately  describe.  Suffice  to  say  that  it  was 
violent  effort,  excitement,  and  hilarity.  I  never 
counted  the  leaps  of  the  swordfish.  I  never  clearly 
saw  him  after  that  first  leap.  He  seemed  only  a 
gleam  in  flying  spray.  Still,  I  did  not  make  any 
mistakes. 

At  the  end  of  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the 
swordfish  quit  his  surface  work  and  settled  down  to 
under-water  fighting,  and  I  began  to  find  myself. 
Captain  Dan  played  the  phonograph,  laughed,  and 
joked  while  I  fought  .the  fish.  My  companions 
watched  my  rod  and  line  and  the  water,  wide-eyed 
and  mute,  as  if  they  could  not  believe  what  seemed 
true. 

In  about  an  hour  and  a  half  the  swordfish  came 
up  and,  tired  out,  he  rolled  on  the  top  of  the  great 
swells.  But  he  could  not  be  drawn  near  the  boat. 
One  little  wave  of  his  tail  made  my  rod  bend  danger- 

32 


SWORDFISH  ON  THE  SURFACE 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


ously.  Still,  I  knew  I  had  him  beaten,  and  I  cal- 
culated that  in  another  hour,  perhaps,  I  could  lead 
him  alongside. 

Then,  like  thunder  out  of  a  clear  sky,  something 
went  wrong  with  the  great  B -Ocean  reel.  It  worked 
hard.  When  a  big  swell  carried  the  swordfish  up, 
pulling  out  line,  the  reel  rasped. 

"It's  freezing  on  you!55  shouted  Captain  Dan, 
with  dark  glance. 

A  new  reel  sometimes  clogs  and  stops  from  fric- 
tion and  heat.  I  had  had  von  Hofe  and  other  reels 
freeze.  But  in  this  instance,  it  seemed  that  for  the 
reel  to  freeze  would  be  simply  heartbreaking.  Well 
— it  froze,  tight  as  a  shut  vise !  I  sat  there,  clutching 
the  vibrating  rod,  and  I  watched  the  swordfish  as 
the  swells  lifted  him.  I  expected  the  line  to  break, 
but,  instead,  the  hook  tore  out. 

Next  day  we  sighted  four  swordfish  and  tried  in 
vain  to  coax  one  to  bite. 

Next  day  we  sighted  ten  swordfish,  which  is  a 
record  for  one  day.    They  were  indifferent. 

The  next  three.  The  next  one,  with  like  result. 
The  next  day  no  fish  were  sighted,  and  that  fact 
encouraged  Captain  Dan. 

The  next  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  I  had  a  strike 
and  hooked  a  swordfish.  He  leaped  twice  and  threw 
the  hook. 

The  next  day  I  got  eleven  jumps  out  of  another 
before  he  gracefully  flung  the  hook  at  the  boat. 

The  next  day,  a  big  swordfish,  with  a  ragged 
purple  fin,  took  my  bait  right  astern  of  the  boat 
and  sounded  deep.  I  hooked  him.  Time  and  time 
again  I  struck  with  all  my  might.    The  fish  did  not 

3  33 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


seem  to  mind  that.  He  swam  along  with  the  boat. 
He  appeared  very  heavy.    I  was  elated  and  curious. 

"What's  he  going  to  do?"  I  kept  asking  Captain 
Dan. 

"Wait!"  he  exclaimed. 

After  six  minutes  the  swordfish  came  up,  probably 
annoyed  by  the  hook  fast  in  him.  When  he  showed 
his  flippers,  as  Captain  Dan  called  them,  we  all 
burst  out  with  wonder  and  awe.  As  yet  I  had  no 
reason  to  fear  a  swordfish. 

"He's  a  whale!"  yelled  Captain  Dan. 

Probably  this  fish  measured  eight  feet  between  his 
dorsal  fin  and  the  great  curved  fluke  of  his  tail,  and 
that  would  make  his  total  length  over  twelve  feet. 

No  doubt  the  swordfish  associated  the  thing  fast 
in  his  jaw  with  the  boat,  for  he  suddenly  awoke. 
He  lifted  himself,  wagging  his  sword,  showing  his 
great  silvery  side.  Then  he  began  to  thresh.  I 
never  felt  a  quarter  of  such  power  at  the  end  of  a 
line.  He  went  swift  as  a  flash.  Then  he  leaped 
sheer  ahead,  like  a  porpoise,  only  infinitely  more 
active.  We  all  yelled.  He  was  of  great  size,  over 
three  hundred,  broad,  heavy,  long,  and  the  most 
violent  and  savage  fish  I  ever  had  a  look  at.  Then 
he  rose  half — two-thirds  out  of  the  water,  shaking  his 
massive  head,  jaws  open,  sword  sweeping,  and 
seemed  to  move  across  the  water  in  a  growing,  boiling 
maelstrom  of  foam.  This  was  the  famous  "walking 
on  his  tail"  I  had  heard  so  much  about.  It  was  an 
incredible  feat.  He  must  have  covered  fifty  yards. 
Then  he  plunged  down,  and  turned  swiftly  in  a  curve 
toward  the  boat.  He  looked  threatening  to  me.  I 
could  not  manage  the  slack  line.    One  more  leap 

34 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


and  he  threw  the  hook.  I  found  the  point  of  the 
hook  bent.  It  had  never  been  embedded  in  his 
jaw.  And  also  I  found  that  his  violent  exercise 
had  lasted  just  one  minute.  I  wondered  how  long 
I  would  have  lasted  had  the  hook  been  deep-set. 

Next  day  I  had  a  swordfish  take  my  bait,  swim 
away  on  the  surface,  showing  the  flying-fish  plainly 
between  his  narrow  beak,  and  after  fooling  with  it 
for  a  while  he  ejected  it. 

Next  day  I  got  a  great  splashing  strike  from  an- 
other, without  even  a  sight  of  the  fish. 

Next  day  I  hooked  one  that  made  nineteen  beau- 
tiful leaps  straightaway  before  he  got  rid  of  the 
hook. 

And  about  that  time  I  was  come  to  a  sad  pass. 
In  fact,  I  could  not  sleep,  eat,  or  rest.  I  was  crazy 
on  swordfish. 

Day  after  day,  from  early  morning  till  late  after- 
noon, aboard  on  the  sea,  trolling,  watching,  waiting, 
eternally  on  the  alert,  I  had  kept  at  the  game.  My 
emotional  temperament  made  this  game  a  particu- 
larly trying  one.  And  every  possible  unlucky,  un- 
foreseen, and  sickening  thing  that  could  happen  to 
a  fisherman  had  happened.  I  grew  morbid,  hope- 
less. I  could  no  longer  see  the  beauty  of  that  wild 
and  lonely  island,  nor  the  wonder  of  that  smooth, 
blue  Pacific,  nor  the  myriad  of  strange  sea-creatures. 
It  was  a  bad  state  of  mind  which  I  could  not  wholly 
conquer.  Only  by  going  at  it  so  hard,  and  sticking 
so  long,  without  any  rests,  could  I  gain  the  experi- 
ence I  wanted.  A  man  to  be  a  great  fisherman  should 
have  what  makes  Stewart  White  a  great  hunter — 
no  emotions.    If  a  lion  charged  me  I  would  imagine 

35 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


a  million  things.  Once  when  a  Mexican  tigre,  a 
jaguar,  charged  me  I —  But  that  is  not  this  story. 
Boschen  has  the  temperament  for  a  great  fisherman. 
He  is  phlegmatic.  All  day — and  day  after  day — he 
sits  there,  on  trigger,  so  to  speak,  waiting  for  the 
strike  that  will  come.  He  is  so  constituted  that  it 
does  not  matter  to  him  how  soon  or  how  late  the 
strike  comes.  To  me  the  wait,  the  suspense,  grew 
to  be  maddening.  Yet  I  stuck  it  out,  and  in  this  I 
claim  a  victory,  of  which  I  am  prouder  than  I  am 
of  the  record  that  gave  me  more  swordfish  to  my 
credit  than  any  other  fisherman  has  taken. 

On  the  next  day,  August  11th,  about  three  o'clock, 
I  saw  a  long,  moving  shadow  back  of  my  bait.  I 
jumped  up.  There  was  the  purple,  drifting  shape  of 
a  swordfish.  I  felt  a  slight  vibration  when  he  hit 
the  bait  with  his  sword.  Then  he  took  the  bait. 
I  hooked  this  swordfish.  He  leaped  eight  times 
before  he  started  out  to  sea.  He  took  us  three 
miles.  In  an  hour  and  five  minutes  I  brought  him 
to  gaff — a  small  fish.  Captain  Dan  would  take  no 
chances  of  losing  him.  He  risked  much  when  he 
grasped  the  waving  sword  with  his  right  hand,  and 
with  the  gaff  in  his  left  he  hauled  the  swordfish 
aboard  and  let  him  slide  down  into  the  cockpit. 
For  Captain  Dan  it  was  no  less  an  overcoming  of 
obstinate  difficulty  than  for  me.  He  was  as  elated 
as  I,  but  I  forgot  the  past  long,  long  siege,  while  he 
remembered  it. 

That  swordfish  certainly  looked  a  tiger  of  the  sea. 
He  had  purple  fins,  long,  graceful,  sharp;  purple 
stripes  on  a  background  of  dark,  mottled  bronze 
green;  mother-of-pearl  tint  fading  into  the  green; 

36 


316-POUND  SWORDFISH 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


and  great  opal  eyes  with  dark  spots  in  the  center. 
The  colors  came  out  most  vividly  and  exquisitely, 
the  purple  blazing,  just  as  the  swordfish  trembled 
his  last  and  died.  He  was  nine  feet  two  inches  long 
and  weighed  one  hundred  and  eighteen  pounds. 

I  caught  one  the  next  day,  one  hundred  and  forty- 
four  pounds.  Fought  another  the  next  day  and  he 
threw  the  hook  after  a  half-hour.  Caught  two  the 
following  day — one  hundred  and  twenty,  and  one 
hundred  and  sixty-six  pounds.  And  then,  Captain 
Dan  foreshadowing  my  remarkable  finish,  exclaimed: 

"I'm  lookin'  for  busted  records  now!" 

One  day  about  noon  the  sea  was  calm  except  up 
toward  the  west  end,  where  a  wind  was  whipping 
the  water  white.  Clemente  Island  towered  with  its 
steep  slopes  of  wild  oats  and  its  blue  canons  full  of 
haze. 

Captain  Dan  said  he  had  seen  a  big  swordfish 
jump  off  to  the  west,  and  we  put  on  full  speed.  He 
must  have  been  a  mile  out  and  just  where  the  breeze 
ruffled  the  water.  As  good  luck  would  have  it,  we 
came  upon  the  fish  on  the  surface.  I  consider  this 
a  fine  piece  of  judgment  for  Captain  Dan,  to  locate 
him  at  that  distance.  He  was  a  monster  and  fresh 
run  from  the  outside  sea.  That  is  to  say,  his  great 
fin  and  tail  were  violet,  almost  pink  in  color.  They 
had  not  had  time  to  get  sunburnt,  as  those  of  fish 
earlier  arrived  at  Clemente. 

We  made  a  wide  circle  round  him,  to  draw  the 
flying-fish  bait  near  him.  But  before  we  could  get 
it  near  he  went  down.  The  same  old  story,  I  thought, 

37 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


with  despair — these  floating  fish  will  not  bite.  We 
circled  over  the  place  where  he  had  gone  down, 
and  I  watched  my  bait  rising  and  falling  in  the  low 
swells. 

Suddenly  Captain  Dan  yelled  and  I  saw  a  great 
blaze  of  purple  and  silver  green  flashing  after  my 
bait.  It  was  the  swordfish,  and  he  took  the  bait 
on  the  run.  That  was  a  moment  for  a  fisherman! 
I  found  it  almost  impossible  to  let  him  have  enough 
line.  All  that  I  remember  about  the  hooking  of  him 
was  a  tremendous  shock.  His  first  dash  was  ir- 
resistibly powerful,  and  I  had  a  sensation  of  the 
absurdity  of  trying  to  stop  a  fish  like  that.  Then 
the  line  began  to  rise  on  the  surface  and  to  lengthen 
in  my  sight,  and  I  tried  to  control  my  rapture  and 
fear  enough  to  be  able  to  see  him  clearly  when  he 
leaped.  The  water  split,  and  up  he  shot — a  huge, 
glittering,  savage,  beautiful  creature,  all  purple  and 
opal  in  the  sunlight.  He  did  not  get  all  the  way 
out  of  the  water,  but  when  he  dropped  back  he  made 
the  water  roar. 

Then,  tearing  off  line,  he  was  out  of  the  water  in 
similar  leaps — seven  times  more.  Captain  Dan  had 
his  work  cut  out  for  him  as  well  as  I  had  mine.  It 
was  utterly  impossible  to  keep  a  tight  line,  and  when 
I  felt  the  slacking  of  weight  I  grew  numb  and  sick 
— thinking  he  was  gone.  But  he  suddenly  straight- 
ened the  line  with  a  jerk  that  lifted  me,  and  he 
started  inshore.  He  had  about  four  hundred  feet 
of  line  out,  and  more  slipping  out  as  if  the  drag  was 
not  there.  Captain  Dan  headed  the  boat  after  him 
at  full  speed.  Then  followed  a  most  thrilling  race. 
It  was  over  very  quickly,  but  it  seemed  an  age. 

38 


^THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


When  he  stopped  and  went  down  he  had  pulled 
thirteen  hundred  feet  off  my  reel  while  we  were 
chasing  him  at  full  speed.  While  he  sounded  I 
got  back  half  of  this  line.  I  wish  I  could  give  some 
impression  of  the  extraordinary  strength  and  speed 
of  this  royal  purple  fish  of  the  sea.  He  came  up 
again,  in  two  more  leaps,  one  of  which  showed  me 
his  breadth  of  back,  and  then  again  was  performed 
for  me  the  feature  of  which  I  had  heard  so  much 
and  which  has  made  the  swordfish  the  most  famous 
of  all  fish — he  rose  two-thirds  out  of  the  water,  I 
suppose  by  reason  of  the  enormous  power  of  his  tail, 
though  it  seemed  like  magic,  and  then  he  began  to 
walk  across  the  sea  in  a  great  circle  of  white  foam, 
wagging  his  massive  head,  sword  flying,  jaws  wide, 
dorsal  fin  savagely  erect,  like  a  lion's  mane.  He  was 
magnificent.  I  have  never  seen  fury  so  expressed 
or  such  an  unquenchable  spirit.  Then  he  dropped 
back  with  a  sudden  splash,  and  went  down  and  down 
and  down. 

All  swordfish  fight  differently,  and  this  one  adopted 
tuna  tactics.  He  sounded  and  began  to  plug  away 
and  bang  the  leader  with  his  tail.  He  would  take 
off  three  hundred  feet  of  line,  and  then,  as  he  slowed 
up,  I,  by  the  labor  of  Hercules,  pulled  and  pumped 
and  wound  most  of  it  back  on  the  reel.  This  kept 
up  for  an  hour — surely  the  hardest  hour's  work  of 
my  life. 

But  a  swordfish  is  changeable.  That  is  the  beauty 
of  his  gameness.  He  left  off  sounding  and  came 
up  to  fight  on  the  surface.  In  the  next  hour  he 
pulled  us  from  the  Fence  to  Long  Point,  a  distance 
of  four  miles. 

39 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


Once  off  the  Point,  where  the  tide  rip  is  strong, 
he  began  to  circle  in  great,  wide  circles.  Strangely, 
he  did  not  put  out  to  sea.  And  here,  during  the 
next  hour,  I  had  the  finest  of  experiences  I  think 
that  ever  befell  a  fisherman.  I  was  hooked  to  a 
monster  fighting  swordfish;  I  was  wet  with  sweat, 
and  salt  water  that  had  dripped  from  my  reel,  and 
I  was  aching  in  every  muscle.  The  sun  was  setting 
in  banks  of  gold  and  silver  fog  over  the  west  end, 
and  the  sea  was  opalescent — vast,  shimmering,  heav- 
ing, beautiful.  And  at  this  sunset  moment,  or 
hour — for  time  seemed  nothing — a  school  of  giant 
tuna  began  leaping  around  us,  smashing  the  water, 
making  the  flying-fish  rise  in  clouds,  like  drifting 
bees.  I  saw  a  whole  flock  of  flying-fish  rise  into 
the  air  with  that  sunset  glow  and  color  in  the  back- 
ground, and  the  exquisite  beauty  of  life  and  move- 
ment was  indescribable.  Next  a  bald  eagle  came 
soaring  down,  and,  swooping  along  the  surface,  he 
lowered  his  talons  to  pick  up  a  crippled  flying-fish. 
And  when  the  hoary-headed  bird  rose,  a  golden  eagle, 
larger  and  more  powerful,  began  to  contest  with 
him  for  the  prey. 

Then  the  sky  darkened  and  the  moon  whitened — 
and  my  fight  went  on.  I  had  taken  the  precaution 
to  work  for  two  months  at  rowing  to  harden  my 
hands  for  just  such  a  fight  as  this.  Yet  my  hands 
suffered  greatly.  A  man  who  is  not  in  the  best  of 
physical  trim,  with  his  hands  hard,  cannot  hope  to 
land  a  big  swordfish. 

I  was  all  afternoon  at  this  final  test,  and  all  in, 
too,  but  at  last  I  brought  him  near  enough  for  Cap- 
tain Dan  to  grasp  the  leader.  .  .  .  Then  there  was 

40 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


something  doing  around  that  boat  for  a  spell!  I 
was  positive  a  German  torpedo  had  hit  us.  But  the 
explosion  was  only  the  swordfish's  tail  and  Dan's 
voice  yelling  for  another  gaff.  When  Captain  Dan 
got  the  second  gaff  in  him  there  was  another  sub- 
marine attack,  but  the  boat  did  not  sink. 

Next  came  the  job  of  lassoing  the  monster's  tail. 
Here  I  shone,  for  I  had  lassoed  mountain-lions  with 
Buffalo  Jones,  and  I  was  efficient  and  quick.  Cap- 
tain Dan  and  I  were  unable  to  haul  the  fish  on  board, 
and  we  had  to  get  out  the  block  and  tackle  and  lift 
the  tail  on  deck,  secure  that,  and  then  pull  up  the 
head  from  the  other  side.  After  that  I  needed  some 
kind  of  tackle  to  hold  me  up. 

We  were  miles  from  camp,  and  I  was  wet  and  cold 
and  exhausted,  and  the  pain  in  my  blistered  hands 
was  excruciating.  But  not  soon  shall  I  forget  that 
ride  down  the  shore  with  the  sea  so  rippling  and 
moon-blanched,  and  the  boom  of  the  surf  on  the 
rocks,  and  the  peaks  of  the  island  standing  bold  and 
dark  against  the  white  stars. 

This  swordfish  weighed  three  hundred  and  six- 
teen pounds  on  faulty  scales  at  Clemente.  He  very 
likely  weighed  much  more.  He  was  the  largest 
Captain  Dan  ever  saw,  up  to  that  time.  Al  Shade 
guessed  his  weight  at  three  hundred  and  sixty. 
The  market  fishermen,  who  put  in  at  the  little 
harbor  the  next  day,  judged  him  way  over  three 
hundred,  and  these  men  are  accurate.  The  fish 
hung  head  down  for  a  day  and  night,  lost  all  the 
water  and  blood  and  feed  in  him,  and  another  day 
later,  when  landed  at  Avalon,  he  had  lost  consider- 
able.   There  were  fishermen  who  discredited  Cap- 

41 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


tain  Dan  and  me,  who  in  our  enthusiasm  claimed 
a  record. 

But — that  sort  of  thing  is  one  of  the  aspects  of 
the  sport.  I  was  sorry,  for  Captain  Dan's  sake. 
The  rivalries  between  boatmen  are  keen  and  im- 
portant, and  they  are  fostered  by  unsportsman-like 
fishermen.  And  fishermen  live  among  past  asso- 
ciations; they  grow  to  believe  their  performances 
unbeatable  and  they  hate  to  see  a  new  king  crowned. 
This  may  be  human,  since  we  are  creatures  who 
want  always  to  excel,  but  it  is  irritating  to  the  young 
fishermen.  As  for  myself,  what  did  I  care  how 
much  the  swordfish  weighed?  He  was  huge,  mag- 
nificent, beautiful,  and  game  to  the  end  of  that  four- 
hour  battle.  Who  or  what  could  change  that — or 
the  memory  of  those  schools  of  flying-fish  in  the 
sunset  glow — or  the  giant  tuna,  smashing  the  water 
all  about  me — or  the  eagles  fighting  over  my  head — 
or  the  beauty  of  wild  and  lonely  Clemente  under  its 
silver  cloud-banks? 

I  went  on  catching  one  or  two  swordfish  every 
day,  and  Captain  Dan  averred  that  the  day  would 
come  when  we  would  swamp  the  boat.  These  days 
were  fruitful  of  the  knowledge  of  swordfish  that  I 
had  longed  to  earn. 

They  are  indeed  "queer  birds."  I  learned  to 
recognize  the  sharp  vibration  of  my  line  when  a 
swordfish  rapped  the  bait  with  his  sword.  No 
doubt  he  thought  he  thus  killed  his  prey.  Then 
the  strike  would  come  invariably  soon  after.  No 
two  swordfish  acted  or  fought  alike.  I  hooked  one 
that  refused  to  stand  the  strain  of  the  line.  He 

42 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


followed  the  boat,  and  was  easily  gaffed.  I  hooked 
another,  a  heavy  fish,  that  did  not  show  for  two 
hours.  We  were  sure  we  had  a  broadbill,  and  were 
correspondingly  worried.  The  broadbill  swordfish 
is  a  different  proposition.  He  is  larger,  fiercer,  and 
tireless.  He  will  charge  the  boat,  and  nothing  but 
the  churning  propeller  will  keep  him  from  ramming 
the  boat.  There  were  eight  broadbill  swordfish 
hooked  at  Avalon  during  the  summer,  and  not  one 
brought  to  gaff.  This  is  an  old  story.  Only  two 
have  been  caught  to  date.  They  are  so  powerful, 
so  resistless,  so  desperate,  and  so  cunning  that  it 
seems  impossible  to  catch  them.  They  will  cut  bait 
after  bait  off  your  hook  as  clean  as  if  it  had  been 
done  with  a  knife.  For  that  matter,  their  broad  bill 
is  a  straight,  long,  powerful  two-edged  sword.  And 
the  fish  perfectly  understands  its  use. 

This  matter  of  swordfish  charging  the  boat  is  apt 
to  be  discredited  by  fishermen.  But  it  certainly  is 
not  doubted  by  the  few  who  know.  I  have  seen  two 
swordfish  threaten  my  boat,  and  one  charge  it. 
Walker,  an  Avalon  boatman,  tells  of  a  prodigious 
battle  his  angler  had  with  a  broadbill  giant  calcu- 
lated to  weigh  five  hundred  pounds.  This  fight 
lasted  eight  hours.  Many  times  the  swordfish  • 
charged  the  boat  and  lost  his  nerve.  If  that  pro- 
peller had  stopped  he  would  have  gone  through  the 
boat  as  if  it  had  been  paper.  After  this  fish  freed 
himself  he  was  so  mad  that  he  charged  the  boat 
repeatedly.  Boschen  fought  a  big  broadbill  for 
eleven  hours.  And  during  this  fight  the  swordfish 
sounded  to  the  bottom  forty-eight  times,  and  had 
to  be  pumped  up;  he  led  the  boat  almost  around 

43 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


Catalina  Island — twenty-nine  miles;  and  he  had 
gotten  out  into  the  channel,  headed  for  Clemente, 
when  he  broke  away.  This  fish  did  everything.  I 
consider  this  battle  the  greatest  on  record.  Only  a 
man  of  enormous  strength  and  endurance  could  have 
lasted  so  long — not  to  speak  of  the  skill  and  wits 
necessary  on  the  part  of  both  fisherman  and  boat- 
man. All  fishermen  fish  for  the  big  fish,  though  it 
is  sport  to  catch  any  game  fish,  irrespective  of  size. 
But  let  any  fisherman  who  has  nerve  see  and  feel 
a  big  swordfish  on  his  line,  and  from  that  moment 
he  is  obsessed.  Why,  a  tarpon  is  child's  play  com- 
pared to  holding  a  fast  swordfish. 

It  is  my  great  ambition  now  to  catch  a  broadbilh 
That  would  completely  round  out  my  fishing  ex- 
perience. And  I  shall  try.  But  I  doubt  that  I  will 
be  so  fortunate.  It  takes  a  long  time.  Boschen  was 
years  catching  his  fish.  Moreover,  though  it  is  hard 
to  get  a  broadbill  to  bite — and  harder  to  hook  him 
— it  is  infinitely  harder  to  do  anything  with  him 
after  you  do  get  fast  to  him. 

A  word  about  Avalon  boatmen.  They  are  a  fine 
body  of  men.  I  have  heard  them  maligned.  Cer- 
tainly they  have  petty  rivalries  and  jealousies,  but 
this  is  not  their  fault.  They  fish  all  the  seasons 
around  and  have  been  there  for  years.  Boatmen  at 
Long  Key  and  other  Florida  resorts — at  Tampico, 
Aransas  Pass — are  not  in  the  same  class  with  the 
Avalon  men.  They  want  to  please  and  to  excel, 
and  to  number  you  among  their  patrons  for  the 
future.  And  the  boats — nowhere  are  there  such 
splendid  boats.    Captain  Danielson's  boat  had  ut- 

44 


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a 

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PQ 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


terly  spoiled  me  for  fishing  out  of  any  other.  He 
had  it  built,  and  the  ideas  of  its  construction  were  a 
product  of  fifteen  years'  study.  It  is  thirty-eight 
feet  long,  and  wide,  with  roomy,  shaded  cockpit 
and  cabin,  and  comfortable  revolving  chairs  to  fish 
from.  These  chairs  have  moving  sockets  into  which 
you  can  jam  the  butt  of  your  rod;  and  the  backs 
can  be  removed  in  a  flash.  Then  you  can  haul  at 
a  fish!  The  boat  lies  deep,  with  heavy  ballast  in 
the  stern.  It  has  a  keel  all  the  way,  and  an  enor- 
mous rudder.  Both  are  constructed  so  your  line 
can  slip  under  the  boat  without  fouling.  It  is 
equipped  with  sail  and  a  powerful  engine.  Daniel- 
son  can  turn  this  boat,  going  at  full  speed,  in  its 
own  length!  Consider  the  merit  of  this  when  a 
tuna  strikes,  or  a  swordfish  starts  for  the  open  sea. 
How  many  tarpon,  barracuda,  amber  jack,  and  tuna 
I  have  lost  on  the  Atlantic  seaboard  just  because 
the  boat  could  not  be  turned  in  time! 

Clemente  Island  is  a  mountain  of  cliffs  and  caves. 
It  must  be  of  volcanic  origin,  and  when  the  lava 
rose,  hot  and  boiling,  great  blow-holes  formed,  and 
hardened  to  make  the  caves.  It  is  an  exceedingly 
beautiful  island.  The  fishing  side  is  on  the  north, 
or  lee,  shore,  where  the  water  is  very  deep  right  off 
the  rocks.  There  are  kelp-beds  along  the  shore, 
and  the  combination  of  deep  water,  kelp,  and  small 
fish  is  what  holds  the  swordfish  there  in  August  and 
September.  I  have  seen  acres  of  flying-fish  in  the 
air  at  once,  and  great  swarms  of  yellowtail,  basking 
on  the  surface.  The  color  of  the  water  is  indigo 
blue,  clear  as  crystal.    Always  a  fascinating  thing 

45 


TALES  OF  FISHES 

for  me  was  to  watch  the  water  for  new  and  different 
fish,  strange  marine  creatures,  life  of  some  kind. 
And  the  watching  was  always  rewarded.  I  have 
been  close  to  schools  of  devilish  blackfish,  and  I 
have  watched  great  whales  play  all  around  me. 
What  a  spectacle  to  see  a  whale  roll  and  dip  his 
enormous  body  and  bend  and  sound,  lifting  the  huge, 
glistening  flukes  of  his  tail,  wide  as  a  house!  I  hate 
sharks  and  have  caught  many,  both  little  and  big. 
When  you  are  watching  for  swordfish  it  is  no  fun 
to  have  a  big  shark  break  for  your  bait,  throw  the 
water,  get  your  hook,  and  lift  you  from  your  seat. 
It  happened  often.  But  sometimes  when  I  was 
sure  it  was  a  shark  it  was  really  a  swordfish!  I  used 
to  love  to  watch  the  sunfish  leap,  they  are  so  round 
and  glistening  and  awkward.  I  could  tell  one  two 
miles  away.  The  blue  shark  leaps  often  and  he 
always  turns  clear  over.  You  cannot  mistake  it. 
Nor  can  you  mistake  a  swordfish  when  he  breaks, 
even  though  you  only  see  the  splash.  He  makes 
two  great  sheets  of  water  rise  and  fall.  Probably 
all  these  fish  leap  to  shake  off  the  remoras.  A 
remora  is  a  parasite,  a  queer  little  fish,  pale  in 
color,  because  he  probably  lives  inside  the  gills  of 
the  fish  he  preys  upon,  with  the  suckers  on  top  of 
his  head,  arranged  in  a  shield,  ribbed  like  a  wash- 
board. This  little  fish  is  as  mysterious  as  any 
creature  of  the  sea.  He  is  as  swift  as  lightning. 
He  can  run  over  the  body  of  a  swordfish  so  quickly 
you  can  scarcely  follow  his  movement,  and  at  all 
times  he  is  fast  to  the  swordfish,  holding  with  that 
flat  sucker  head.  Mr;  Holder  wrote  years  ago  that 
the  remora  sticks  to  a  fish  just  to  be  carried  along, 

46 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


as  a  means  of  travel,  but  I  do  not  incline  to  this 
belief.  We  found  many  remoras  inside  the  gills  of 
swordfish,  and  their  presence  there  was  evidence  of 
their  blood-sucking  tendencies.  I  used  to  search 
every  swordfish  for  these  remoras,  and  I  would  keep 
them  in  a  bucket  till  we  got  to  our  anchorage.  A 
school  of  tame  rock-bass  there,  and  tame  yellowtail, 
and  a  few  great  sea-bass  were  always  waiting  for 
us — for  our  discarded  bait  or  fish  of  some  kind. 
But  when  I  threw  in  a  live  remora,  how  these  hungry 
fish  did  dart  away!  Life  in  the  ocean  is  strange, 
complex,  ferocious,  and  wonderful. 

Al  Shade  keeps  the  only  camp  at  Clemente.  It 
is  a  clean,  comfortable,  delightful  place.  I  have 
found  no  place  where  sleep  is  so  easy,  so  sweet,  so 
deep.  Shade  lives  a  lonely  life  there  ten  months 
in  the  year.  And  it  is  no  wonder  that  when  a  fisher- 
man arrives  Al  almost  kills  himself  in  his  good 
humor  and  kindness  and  usefulness.  Men  who  live 
lonely  lives  are  always  glad  to  see  their  fellow- 
men.  But  he  loves  Clemente  Island.  Who  would 
not? 

When  I  think  of  it  many  pictures  come  to  mind 
— evening  with  the  sea  rolling  high  and  waves  curv- 
ing shoreward  in  great  dark  ripples,  that  break  and 
spread  white  and  run  up  the  strand.  The  sky  is 
pale  blue  above,  a  green  sheen  low  down,  with  white 
stars  blinking.  The  promontories  run  down  into  the 
sea,  sheer,  black,  rugged,  bold,  mighty.  The  surf 
is  loud  and  deep,  detonating,  and  the  pebbles  scream 
as  the  waves  draw  them  down.  Strange  to  realize 
that  surf  when  on  the  morrow  the  sea  will  be  like 
glass — not  a  wave  nor  a  ripple  under  the  gray  fog! 

47 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


Wild  and  beautiful  Clemente — the  island  of  caves 
and  canons  and  cliffs — lilac  and  cactus  and  ice-plant 
and  arbor-vitse  and  ironwood,  with  the  wild  goats 
silhouetted  dark  against  the  bold  sky-line! 

There  came  that  day  of  all  days.  I  never  be- 
lieved Captain  Dan,  but  now  I  shall  never  forget. 
The  greatest  day  that  ever  befell  me!  I  brought 
four  swordfish  to  gaff  and  whipped  another,  the 
biggest  one  of  the  whole  trip,  and  saw  him  tear 
away  from  the  hook  just  at  the  last — in  all,  nine 
hours  of  strenuous  hanging  on  to  a  rod. 

I  caught  the  first  one  before  six  o'clock,  as  the 
sun  was  rising  red-gold,  dazzling,  glorious.  He 
leaped  in  the  sun  eleven  times.  He  weighed  one 
hundred  and  eighty-seven. 

After  breakfast  we  sighted  two  swordfish  on  the 
smooth  sea.  Both  charged  the  bait.  I  hooked  one 
of  these  and  he  leaped  twenty-three  times.  He 
weighed  one  hundred  and  sixty-eight. 

Then  off  the  east  end  we  saw  a  big  swordfish  leap 
five  times.  We  went  out  toward  the  open  sea. 
But  we  never  got  anywhere  near  him.  I  had  three 
strikes,  one  after  another,  when  we  were  speeding 
the  boat.  Then  we  shut  down  and  took  to  slow 
trolling.  I  saw  another  swordfish  sail  for  my  bait, 
and  yelled.  He  shot  off  with  the  bait  and  his  dor- 
sal fin  stuck  out  of  the  water.  I  hooked  him.  He 
leaped  thirty-eight  times.  How  the  camera  did 
snap  during  this  fight!  He  weighed  two  hundred 
and  ten. 

I  had  a  fierce  strike  on  the  way  in.  Too  fast! 
We  lost  him. 

48 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


"The  sea's  alive  with  swordfish!"  cried  Captain 
Dan.    "It's  the  day!" 

Then  I  awoke  to  my  opportunity. 

Round  the  east  end,  close  to  the  great  black 
bluff,  where  the  swells  pile  up  so  thunderously,  I 
spied  the  biggest  purple  fin  I  had  ever  seen.  This 
fellow  came  to  meet  us — took  my  bait.  I  hooked 
at  him,  but  did  not  hurt  or  scare  him.  Finally  I 
pulled  the  hook  out  of  him.  While  I  was  reeling  in 
my  line  suddenly  a  huge  purple  shadow  hove  in 
sight.  It  was  the  swordfish — and  certainly  one  of 
immense  size — the  hugest  yet. 

"He's  following  the  boat!"  yelled  Captain  Dan, 
in  great  excitement. 

So  I  saw,  but  I  could  not  speak  or  yell.  All  was 
intense  excitement  on  that  boat.  I  jumped  up  on 
the  stern,  holding  the  bait  Captain  Dan  had  put 
on  my  hook.  Then  I  paused  to  look.  We  all 
looked,  spellbound.  That  was  a  sight  of  a  lifetime. 
There  he  swam,  the  monster,  a  few  feet  under  the 
surface,  only  a  rod  back  of  the  boat.  I  had  no  calm 
judgment  with  which  to  measure  his  dimensions. 
I  only  saw  that  he  was  tremendous  and  beautiful. 
His  great,  yard-wide  fins  gleamed  royal  purple.  And 
the  purple  strips  crossed  his  silver  sides.  He  glowed 
in  the  water,  changed  color  like  a  chameleon,  and 
drifted,  floated  after  us.  I  thought  of  my  brother 
Reddy — how  he  would  have  gloried  in  that  sight! 
I  thought  of  Dilg,  of  Bob  Davis,  of  Professor  Kel- 
logg— other  great  fishermen,  all  in  a  flash.  Indeed, 
though  I  gloated  over  my  fortune,  I  was  not  selfish. 
Then  I  threw  in  the  flying-fish  bait.  The  swordfish 
loomed  up,  while  my  heart  ceased  to  beat.  There, 

4  49 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


in  plain  sight,  he  took  the  bait,  as  a  trout  might  have 
taken  a  grasshopper.  Slowly  he  sank.  The  line  be- 
gan to  slip  off  the  reel.  He  ceased  to  be  a  bright 
purple  mass — grew  dim — then  vague — and  disap- 
peared. 

I  sat  down,  jammed  the  rod  in  the  socket,  and  got 
ready.    For  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  steady  my  legs. 

"What  '11  he  weigh?"  I  gasped. 

"O  Lord!  he  looked  twice  as  big  as  the  big  one 
you  got,"  replied  Dan. 

"Stand  by  with  the  cameras!"  I  said  to  my  com- 
panions, and  as  they  lined  up,  two  on  one  side  and 
one  on  the  other,  I  began  to  strike  at  that  fish  with 
all  my  might  and  main.  I  must  have  had  at  least 
twelve  powerful  strikes  before  he  began  to  wake  up. 

Then! 

He  came  up,  throwing  the  water  in  angry  spouts. 
If  he  did  not  threaten  the  boat  I  was  crazy.  He 
began  an  exhibition  that  dwarfed  any  other  I  had 
seen,  and  it  was  so  swift  that  I  could  scarcely  fol- 
low him.  Yet  when  I  saw  the  line  rise,  and  then 
the  wonderful,  long,  shiny  body,  instinct  with  fury, 
shoot  into  the  air,  I  yelled  the  number  of  the  leap, 
and  this  was  the  signal  for  the  camera-workers. 
They  held  the  cameras  close,  without  trying  to  focus, 
facing  the  fish,  and  they  snapped  when  I  yelled. 
It  was  all  gloriously  exciting.  I  could  never  de- 
scribe that  exhibition.  I  only  know  that  he  leaped 
clear  forty-six  times,  and  after  a  swift,  hard  hour 
for  me  he  got  away.  Strangely,  I  was  almost  happy 
that  he  had  shaken  loose,  for  he  had  given  such  re- 
markable opportunities  for  pictures. 

Captain  Dan  threw  the  wheel  hard  over  and  the 

50 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


boat  turned.  The  swordfish,  tired  out  and  uncon- 
scious of  freedom,  was  floating  near  the  surface,  a 
drifting  blaze  of  purple.  The  boat  sheered  close  to 
him.  Captain  Dan  reached  over  with  a  gaff — and 
all  but  gaffed  that  swordfish  before  he  sank  too 
deep.  Captain  Dan  was  white  with  disappoint- 
ment. That  more  than  anything  showed  me  his 
earnestness,  what  it  all  meant  to  him. 

On  the  way  in,  for  we  had  been  led  out  a  couple 
of  miles,  I  saw  a  blue  streak  after  my  bait,  and  I 
was  ready  before  the  swordfish  got  to  it.  He  struck 
viciously  and  I  dared  not  let  him  have  much  line. 
When  I  hooked  him  he  started  out  to  sea  at  a  clip 
that  smoked  the  line  off  my  reel.  Captain  Dan  got 
the  boat  turned  before  the  swordfish  began  to  leap. 
Then  it  was  almost  a  straightaway  race.  This  fel- 
low was  a  greyhound  leaper.  He  did  not  churn 
the  water,  nor  dash  to  and  fro  on  the  surface,  but 
kept  steadily  leaping  ahead.  He  cleared  the  water 
thirty-nine  times  before  he  gave  up  leaping.  Then 
he  sounded.  The  line  went  slack.  I  thought  he 
was  gone.  Suddenly  he  showed  again,  in  a  white 
splash,  and  he  was  not  half  as  far  away  as  when  he 
went  down.  Then  I  felt  the  pull  on  the  line.  It 
was  heavy,  for  he  had  left  a  great  bag  in  it.  I  en- 
deavored to  recover  line,  but  it  came  in  very  slowly. 
The  swordfish  then  threshed  on  the  surface  so  that 
we  could  hear  the  water  crack.  But  he  did  not  leap 
again.  He  had  gone  mad  with  rage.  He  seemed 
to  have  no  sense  of  direction.  He  went  down  again, 
only  to  rush  up,  still  closer  to  us.  Then  it  was 
plain  he  saw  the  nature  of  his  foe.  Splitting  water 
like  a  swift  motor-boat,  he  charged  us,, 

51 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


I  had  a  cold  sensation,  but  was  too  excited  to  be 
afraid.    Almost  I  forgot  to  reel  in. 

"He's  after  us!"  I  said,  grimly. 

Captain  Dan  started  the  boat  ahead  fast.  The 
swordfish  got  out  of  line  with  the  boat.  But  he 
was  close,  and  he  made  me  think  of  the  charging 
rhinoceros  Dugmore  photographed.  And  then  I 
yelled  for  the  cameras  to  be  snapped.  They  all 
clicked — and  then,  when  the  swordfish  shot  close 
behind  us,  presenting  the  most  magnificent  picture, 
no  one  was  ready! 

As  he  passed  I  thought  I  saw  the  line  round  his 
body.  Then  he  sounded  and  began  to  plug.  He 
towed  us  six  miles  out  to  sea.  I  could  not  stop  him. 
I  had  begun  to  weaken.  My  hands  were  sights. 
My  back  hurt.  But  I  stayed  with  him.  He  felt 
like  a  log  and  I  could  not  recover  line.  Captain 
Dan  said  it  was  because  I  was  almost  all  in,  but  I 
did  not  think  that.  Presently  this  swordfish  turned 
inshore  and  towed  Us  back  the  six  miles.  By  this 
time  it  was  late  and  I  was  all  in.  But  the  sword- 
fish  did  not  seem  nearer  the  boat.  I  got  mad  and 
found  some  reserve  strength.  I  simply  had  to  bring 
him  to  gaff.  I  pulled  and  pumped  and  wound 
until  I  was  blind  and  could  scarcely  feel.  My  old 
blisters  opened  and  bled.  My  left  arm  was  dead. 
I  seemed  to  have  no  more  strength  than  a  kitten. 
I  could  not  lead  the  fish  nor  turn  him.  I  bad  to 
drag  and  drag,  inch  by  inch.  It  was  agonizing. 
But  finally  I  was  encouraged  by  sight  of  him,  a  long, 
fine,  game  fellow.  A  hundred  times  I  got  the  end 
of  the  double  line  near  the  leader  in  sight,  only  to 
lose  it. 

52 


THE  ROYAL  PURPLE  GAME  OF  THE  SEA 


Seven  o'clock  passed.  I  had  fought  this  sword- 
fish  nearly  three  hours.  I  could  not  last  much 
longer.  I  rested  a  little,  holding  hard,  and  then 
began  a  last  and  desperate  effort  to  bring  him  to 
gaff.  I  was  absolutely  dripping  with  sweat,  and 
red  flashes  passed  before  my  eyes,  and  queer  dots. 
The  last  supreme  pull — all  I  had  left — brought  the 
end  of  the  leader  to  Captain  Dan's  outstretched 
hand. 

The  swordfish  came  in  broadside.  In  the  clear 
water  we  saw  him  plainly,  beautifully  striped  tiger 
that  he  was!  And  we  all  saw  that  he  had  not  been 
hooked.  He  had  been  lassoed.  In  some  way  the 
leader  had  looped  around  him  with  the  hook  catching 
under  the  wire.  No  wonder  it  had  nearly  killed  me 
to  bring  him  to  the  boat,  and  surely  I  never  would 
have  succeeded  had  it  not  been  for  the  record  Cap- 
tain Dan  coveted.  That  was  the  strangest  feature 
in  all  my  wonderful  Clemente  experience — to  see 
that  superb  swordfish  looped  in  a  noose  of  my  long 
leader.  He  was  without  a  scratch.  It  may  serve 
to  give  some  faint  idea  of  the  bewildering  possibili- 
ties in  the  pursuit  of  this  royal  purple  game  of  the 
Pacific. 


IV 


TWO  FIGHTS  WITH  SWORDFISH 

MY  first  day  at  Avalon,  1916,  was  one  likely  to 
be  memorable  among  my  fishing  experiences. 
The  weather  (August  2d)  was  delightful — smooth, 
rippling  sea,  no  wind,  clear  sky  and  warm.  The 
Sierra  Nevada  Mountains  shone  dark  above  the 
horizon. 

A  little  before  noon  we  passed  my  friend  Lone 
Angler,  who  hailed  us  and  said  there  was  a  big 
broadbill  swordfish  off  in  the  steamer-course.  We 
steered  off  in  that  direction. 

There  were  sunfish  and  sharks  showing  all  around. 
Once  I  saw  a  whale.  The  sea  was  glassy,  with  a 
long,  heaving  swell.  Birds  were  plentiful  in  scat- 
tered groups. 

We  ran  across  a  shark  of  small  size  and  tried  to 
get  him  to  take  a  bait.  He  refused.  A  little  later 
Captain  Dan  espied  a  fin,  and  upon  running  up  we 
discovered  the  huge,  brown,  leathery  tail  and  dorsal 
of  a  broadbill  swordfish. 

Captain  Dan  advised  a  long  line  out  so  that  we 
could  circle  the  fish  from  a  distance  and  not  scare 
him.  I  do  not  remember  any  unusual  excitement. 
I  was  curious  and  interested.    Remembering  all  I 

54 


TWO  FIGHTS  WITH  SWORDFISH 


had  heard  about  these  fish,  I  did  not  anticipate 
getting  a  strike  from  him. 

We  circled  him  and  drew  the  flying-fish  bait  so 
that  he  would  swim  near  it.  As  it  was,  I  had  to 
reel  in  some.  Presently  we  had  the  bait  some 
twenty  yards  ahead  of  him.  Then  Captain  Dan 
slowed  down.  The  broadbill  wiggled  his  tail  and 
slid  out  of  sight.  Dan  said  he  was  going  for  my 
bait.  But  I  did  not  believe  so.  Several  moments 
passed.  I  had  given  up  any  little  hope  I  might 
have  had  when  I  received  a  quick,  strong,  vibrating 
strike — different  from  any  I  had  ever  experienced. 
I  suppose  the  strangeness  was  due  to  the  shock  he 
gave  my  line  when  he  struck  the  bait  with  his  sword. 
The  line  paid  out  unsteadily  and  slowly.  I  looked 
at  Dan  and  he  looked  at  me.  Neither  of  us  was 
excited  nor  particularly  elated.  I  guess  I  did  not 
realize  what  was  actually  going  on. 

I  let  him  have  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
of  line. 

When  I  sat  down  to  jam  the  rod-butt  in  the 
socket  I  had  awakened  to  possibilities.  Throwing 
on  the  drag  and  winding  in  until  my  line  was  taut, 
I  struck  hard — four  times.  He  made  impossible  any 
more  attempts  at  this  by  starting  off  on  a  heavy, 
irresistible  rush.  But  he  was  not  fast,  or  so  it  seemed 
to  me.  He  did  not  get  more  than  four  hundred  feet 
of  line  before  we  ran  up  on  him.  Presently  he 
came  to  the  surface  to  thresh  around.  He  did  not 
appear  scared  or  angry.  Probably  he  was  annoyed 
at  the  pricking  of  the  hook.  But  he  kept  moving, 
sometimes  on  the  surface  and  sometimes  beneath. 
I  did  not  fight  him  hard,  preferring  to  let  him  pull 

55 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


out  the  line,  and  then  when  he  rested  I  worked  on 
him  to  recover  it.  My  idea  was  to  keep  a  perpetual 
strain  upon  him. 

I  do  not  think  I  had  even  a  hope  of  bringing  this 
fish  to  the  boat. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  exactly  when  I  hooked  him, 
and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  sped  by.  My  first  big  thrill 
came  when  he  leaped.  This  was  a  surprise.  He 
was  fooling  round,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  he 
broke  water  clear.  It  was  an  awkward,  ponderous 
action,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  come  up  backward, 
like  a  bucking  bronco.  His  size  and  his  long, 
sinister  sword  amazed  me  and  frightened  me.  It 
gave  me  a  cold  sensation  to  realize  I  was  hooked  to 
a  huge,  dangerous  fish.  But  that  in  itself  was  a 
new  kind  of  thrill.  No  boatman  fears  a  Marlin  as 
he  does  the  true  broadbill  swordfish. 

My  second  thrill  came  when  the  fish  lunged  on 
the  surface  in  a  red  foam.  If  I  had  hooked  him  so 
he  bled  freely  there  was  a  chance  to  land  him! 
This  approach  to  encouragement,  however,  was 
short-lived.  He  went  down,  and  if  I  had  been 
hooked  to  a  submarine  I  could  scarcely  have  felt 
more  helpless.  He  sounded  about  five  hundred  feet 
and  then  sulked.  I  had  the  pleasant  task  of  pump- 
ing him  up.  This  brought  the  sweat  out  upon  me 
and  loosened  me  up.  I  began  to  fight  him  harder. 
And  it  seemed  that  as  I  increased  the  strain  he  grew 
stronger  and  a  little  more  active.  Still  there  was 
not  any  difference  in  his  tactics.  I  began  to  get  a 
conception  of  the  vitality  and  endurance  of  a  broad- 
bill  in  contrast  with  the  speed  and  savageness  of 

his  brother  fish,  the  Marlin,  or  roundbill 

56 


TWO  FIGHTS  WITH  SWORDFISH 


At  two  o'clock  matters  were  about  the  same.  I 
was  not  tired,  but  certainly  the  fish  was  not  tired, 
either.  He  came  to  the  surface  just  about  as  much 
as  he  sounded.  I  had  no  difficulty  at  all  in  getting 
back  the  line  he  took,  at  least  all  save  a  hundred 
feet  or  so.  When  I  tried  to  lead  him  or  lift  him — 
then  I  got  his  point  of  view.  He  would  not  budge 
an  inch.  There  seemed  nothing  to  do  but  let  him 
work  on  the  drag,  and  when  he  had  pulled  out  a 
few  hundred  feet  of  line  we  ran  up  on  him  and  I 
reeled  in  the  line.  Now  and  then  I  put  all  the 
strain  I  could  on  the  rod  and  worked  him  that  way. 

At  three  o'clock  I  began  to  get  tired.  My  hands 
hurt.  And  I  concluded  I  had  been  rather  unlucky 
to  start  on  a  broadbili  at  the  very  beginning. 

From  that  time  he  showed  less  frequently,  and, 
if  anything,  he  grew  slower  and  heavier.  I  felt  no 
more  rushes.  And  along  about  this  time  I  found 
I  could  lead  him  somewhat.  This  made  me  begin 
to  work  hard.  Yet,  notwithstanding,  I  had  no  hope 
of  capturing  the  fish.    It  was  only  experience. 

Captain  Dan  kept  saying:  "Well,  you  wanted  to 
hook  up  with  a  broadbili!  Now  how  do  you  like 
it?"  He  had  no  idea  I  would  ever  land  him.  Sev- 
eral times  I  asked  him  to  give  an  opinion  as  to  the 
size  of  the  swordfish,  but  he  would  not  venture  that 
until  he  had  gotten  a  good  close  view  of  him. 

At  four  o'clock  I  made  the  alarming  discovery 

that  the  great  B-Ocean  reel  was  freezing,  just  as  my 

other  one  had  frozen  on  my  first  swordfish  the  year 

previous.    Captain  Dan  used  language.    He  threw 

up  his  hands.    He  gave  up.    But  I  did  not. 

"Dan,  see  here,"  I  said.    "We'll  run  up  on  him, 

57 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


throw  off  a  lot  of  slack  line,  then  cut  it  and  tie  it 
to  another  reel!" 

"We  might  do  that.  But  it  '11  disqualify  the 
fish,"  he  replied. 

Captain  Dan,  like  all  the  boatmen  at  Avalon,  has 
fixed  ideas  about  the  Tuna  Club  and  its  records  and 
requirements.  It  is  all  right,  I  suppose,  for  a  club 
to  have  rules,  and  not  count  or  credit  an  angler  who 
breaks  a  rod  or  is  driven  to  the  expedient  I  had  pro- 
posed. But  I  do  not  fish  for  clubs  or  records.  I 
fish  for  the  fun,  the  excitement,  the  thrill  of  the 
game,  and  I  would  rather  let  my  fish  go  than  not. 
So  I  said: 

"We'll  certainly  lose  the  fish  if  we  don't  change 
reels.  I  am  using  the  regulation  tackle,  and  to  my 
mind  the  more  tackle  we  use,  provided  we  land  the 
fish,  the  more  credit  is  due  us.  It  is  not  an  easy 
matter  to  change  reels  or  lines  or  rods  with  a  big 
fish  working  all  the  time." 

Captain  Dan  acquiesced,  but  told  me  to  try  fight- 
ing him  a  while  with  the  light  drag  and  the  thumb- 
brake.  So  far  only  the  heavy  drag  had  frozen.  I 
tried  Dan's  idea,  to  my  exceeding  discomfort;  and 
the  result  was  that  the  swordfish  drew  far  away 
from  us.  Presently  the  reel  froze  solid.  The  handle 
would  not  turn.  But  with  the  drag  off  the  spool 
ran  free. 

Then  we  ran  away  from  the  fish,  circling  and  let- 
ting out  slack  line.  When  we  came  to  the  end  of 
the  line  we  turned  back  a  little,  and  with  a  big  slack 
we  took  the  risk  of  cutting  the  line  and  tying  it  on 
the  other  reel.  We  had  just  got  this  done  when  the 
line  straightened  tight!    I  wound  in  about  twelve 

58 


TWO  FIGHTS  WITH  SWORDFISH 


hundred  feet  of  line  and  was  tired  and  wet  when  I 
had  gotten  in  all  I  could  pull.  This  brought  us  to 
within  a  couple  of  hundred  feet  of  our  quarry. 
Also  it  brought  us  to  five  o'clock.  Five  hours!  .  .  . 
I  began  to  have  queer  sensations — aches,  pains, 
tremblings,  saggings.    Likewise  misgivings! 

About  this  period  I  determined  to  see  how  close 
to  the  boat  I  could  pull  him.  I  worked.  The  word 
"worked"  is  not  readily  understood  until  a  man 
has  tried  to  pull  a  big  broadbill  close  to  the  boat. 
I  pulled  until  I  saw  stars  and  my  bones  cracked. 
Then  there  was  another  crack.  The  rod  broke  at 
the  reel  seat  !  And  the  reel  seat  was  bent.  Fortu- 
nately the  line  could  still  pay  out.  And  I  held  the 
tip  while  Dan  pried  and  hammered  the  reel  off  the 
broken  butt  on  to  another  one.  Then  he  put  the 
tip  in  that  butt,  and  once  more  I  had  to  reel  in 
what  seemed  miles  and  miles  of  line. 

Five  thirty!  It  seemed  around  the  end  of  the 
world  for  me.  We  had  drifted  into  a  tide-rip  about 
five  miles  east  of  Avalon,  and  in  this  rough  water 
I  had  a  terrible  time  trying  to  hold  my  fish.  When 
I  discovered  that  I  could  hold  him — and  therefore 
that  he  was  playing  out — then  there  burst  upon  me 
the  dazzling  hope  of  actually  bringing  him  to  gaff. 
It  is  something  to  fight  a  fish  for  more  than  five 
hours  without  one  single  hope  of  his  capture.  I  had 
done  that.  And  now,  suddenly,  to  be  fired  with 
hope  gave  me  new  strength  and  spirit  to  work.  The 
pain  in  my  hands  was  excruciating.  I  was  burning 
all  over;  wet  and  slippery,  and  aching  in  every 
muscle.  These  next  few  minutes  seemed  longer  than 
all  the  hours.    I  found  that  to  put  the  old  strain  on 

59 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


the  rod  made  me  blind  with  pain.  There  was  no 
fun,  no  excitement,  no  thrill  now.  As  I  labored  I 
could  not  help  marveling  at  the  strange,  imbecile 
pursuits  of  mankind.  Here  I  was  in  an  agony, 
absolutely  useless.  Why  did  I  keep  it  up?  I  could 
not  give  up,  and  I  concluded  I  was  crazy. 

I  conceived  the  most  unreasonable  hatred  for  that 
poor  swordfish  that  had  done  nothing  to  me  and  that 
certainly  would  have  been  justified  in  ramming  the 
boat. 

To  my  despair  the  fish  sounded  deep,  going  down 
and  down,  Captain  Dan  watched  the  line.  Finally 
it  ceased  to  pay  out. 

"Pump  him  up!"  said  Dan. 

This  was  funny.    It  was  about  as  funny  as  death. 

I  rested  awhile  and  meditated  upon  the  weakness 
of  the  flesh.  The  thing  most  desirable  and  beautiful 
in  all  the  universe  was  rest.  It  was  so  sweet  to  think 
of  that  I  was  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  from  tossing  the 
rod  overboard.  There  was  something  so  desperately 
trying  and  painful  in  this  fight  with  a  broadbill. 
At  last  I  drew  a  deep;  long  breath,  and,  with  a  pang 
in  my  breast  and  little  stings  all  over  me,  I  began 
to  lift  on  him.  He  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  ocean. 
He  was  just  as  unattainable  as  the  bottom  of  the 
ocean.    But  there  are  ethics  of  a  sportsman! 

Inch  by  inch  and  foot  by  foot  I  pumped  up  this 
live  and  dragging  weight.  I  sweat,  I  panted,  I 
whistled,  I  bled — and  my  arms  were  dead,  and 
my  hands  raw  and  my  heart  seemed  about  to 
burst. 

Suddenly  Captain  Dan  electrified  me. 

"There's  the  end  of  the  double  line!"  he  yelled. 

60 


TWO  FIGHTS  WITH  SWORDFISH 


Unbelievable  as  it  was,  there  the  knot  in  the  end 
of  the  short  six  feet  of  double  line  showed  at  the 
surface.    I  pumped  and  I  reeled  inch  by  inch. 

A  long  dark  object  showed  indistinctly,  wavered 
as  the  swells  rose,  then  showed  again.  As  I  strained 
at  the  rod  so  I  strained  my  eyes. 

"I  see  the  leader!"  yelled  Dan,  in  great  excite- 
ment. 

I  saw  it,  too,  and  I  spent  the  last  ounce  of  strength 
left  in  me.  Up  and  up  came  the  long,  dark,  vague 
object. 

"YouVe  got  him  licked!"  exclaimed  Dan.  "Not 
a  wag  left  in  him!" 

It  did  seem  so.  And  that  bewildering  instant  saw 
the  birth  of  assurance  in  me.  I  was  going  to  get 
him!  That  was  a  grand  instant  for  a  fisherman. 
I  could  have  lifted  anything  then. 

The  swordfish  became  clear  to  my  gaze.  He  was 
a  devilish-looking  monster,  two  feet  thick  across  the 
back,  twelve  feet  long  over  all,  and  he  would  have 
weighed  at  the  least  over  four  hundred  pounds. 
And  I  had  beaten  him!  That  was  there  to  be  seen. 
He  had  none  of  the  beauty  and  color  of  the  round- 
bill  swordfish.  He  was  dark,  almost  black,  with 
huge  dorsal  and  tail,  and  a  wicked  broad  sword  fully 
four  feet  long.  What  terrified  me  was  his  enormous 
size  and  the  deadly  look  of  him.  I  expected  to  see 
him  rush  at  the  boat. 

Watching  him  thus,  I  reveled  in  my  wonderful 
luck.  Up  to  this  date  there  had  been  only  three  of 
these  rare  fish  caught  in  twenty-five  years  of  Avalon 
fishing.  And  this  one  was  far  larger  than  those 
that  had  been  taken. 

61 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


"Lift  him!  Closer!"  called  Captain  Dan.  "In 
two  minutes  I'll  have  a  gaff  in  him!" 

I  made  a  last  effort.  Dan  reached  for  the  leader. 
Then  the  hook  tore  out. 

My  swordfish,  without  a  movement  of  tail  or  fin, 
slowly  sank — to  vanish  in  the  blue  water. 

After  resting  my  blistered  hands  for  three  days, 
which  time  was  scarcely  long  enough  to  heal  them, 
I  could  not  resist  the  call  of  the  sea. 

We  went  off  Seal  Rocks  and  trolled  about  five 
miles  out.  We  met  a  sand-dabber  who  said  he  had 
seen  a  big  broadbill  back  a  ways.  So  we  turned 
round.  After  a  while  I  saw  a  big,  vicious  splash 
half  a  mile  east,  and  we  made  for  it.  Then  I  soon 
espied  the  fish. 

We  worked  around  him  awhile,  but  he  would 
not  take  a  barracuda  or  a  flying-fish. 

It  was  hard  to  keep  track  of  him,  on  account  of 
rough  water.    Soon  he  went  down. 

Then  a  little  later  I  saw  what  Dan  called  a  Marlin. 
He  had  big  flippers,  wide  apart.  I  took  him  for  a 
broadbill. 

We  circled  him,  and  before  he  saw  a  bait  he  leaped 
twice,  coming  about  half  out,  with  belly  toward  us. 
He  looked  huge,  but  just  how  big  it  was  impossible 
to  say. 

After  a  while  he  came  up,  and  we  circled  him.  As 
the  bait  drifted  round  before  him — twenty  yards 
or  more  off — he  gave  that  little  wiggle  of  the  tail 
sickle,  and  went  under.  I  waited.  I  had  given 
up  hope  when  I  felt  him  hit  the  bait.  Then  he  ran 
off,  pretty  fast.    I  let  him  have  a  long  line.  Then 

62 


TWO  FIGHTS  WITH  SWORDFISH 


I  sat  down  and  struck  him.  He  surged  off,  and  we 
all  got  ready  to  watch  him  leap.  But  he  did  not 
show. 

He  swam  off,  sounded,  came  up,  rolled  around, 
went  down  again.  But  we  did  not  get  a  look  at 
him.    He  fought  like  any  other  heavy  swordfish. 

In  one  and  one-half  hours  I  pulled  him  close  to 
the  boat,  and  we  all  saw  him.  But  I  did  not  get 
a  good  look  at  him  as  he  wove  to  and  fro  behind  the 
boat. 

Then  he  sounded. 

I  began  to  work  on  him,  and  worked  harder.  He 
seemed  to  get  stronger  all  the  time. 

"He  feels  like  a  bro&dbill,  I  tell  you,"  I  said  to 
Captain  Dan. 

Dan  shook  his  head,  yet  all  the  same  he  looked 
dubious. 

Then  began  a  slow,  persistent,  hard  battle  between 
me  and  the  fish,  the  severity  of  which  I  did  not 
realize  at  the  time.  In  hours  like  those  time  has 
wings.  My  hands  grew  hot.  They  itched,  and  I 
wanted  to  remove  the  wet  gloves.  But  I  did  not, 
and  sought  to  keep  my  mind  off  what  had  been  half- 
healed  blisters.  Neither  the  fish  nor  I  made  any 
new  moves,  it  all  being  plug  on  his  part  and  give 
and  take  on  mine.  Slowly  and  doggedly  he  worked 
out  toward  the  sea,  and  while  the  hours  passed,  just 
as  persistently  he  circled  back. 

Captain  Dan  came  to  stand  beside  me,  earnestly 
watching  the  rod  bend  and  the  line  stretch.  He 
shook  his  head. 

"That's  a  big  Marlin  and  youVe  got  him  foul- 
hooked/5  he  asserted.    This  statement  was  made  at 

63 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


the  end  of  three  hours  and  more.  I  did  not  agree. 
Dan  and  I  often  had  arguments.  He  always  tackled 
me  when  I  was  in  some  such  situation  as  this — for 
then,  of  course,  he  had  the  best  of  it.  My  brother 
Rome  was  in  the  boat  that  day,  an  intensely  inter- 
ested observer.  He  had  not  as  yet  hooked  a  sword- 
fish. 

"It's  a  German  submarine!"  he  declared. 

My  brother's  wife  and  the  other  ladies  with  us  on 
board  were  inclined  to  favor  my  side;  at  least  they 
were  sorry  for  the  fish  and  said  he  must  be  very  big. 

"Dan,  I  could  tell  a  foul-hooked  fish,"  I  asserted, 
positively.  "This  fellow  is  too  alive — too  limber. 
He  doesn't  sag  like  a  dead  weight." 

"Well,  if  he's  not  foul-hooked,  then  you're  all 
in,"  replied  the  captain. 

Cheerful  acquiescence  is  a  desirable  trait  in  any 
one,  especially  an  angler  who  aspires  to  things,  but 
that  was  left  out  in  the  ordering  of  my  complex 
disposition.  However,  to  get  angry  makes  a  man 
fight  harder,  and  so  it  was  with  me. 

At  the  end  of  five  hours  Dan  suggested  putting 
the  harness  on  me.  This  contrivance,  by  the  way, 
is  a  thing  of  straps  and  buckles,  and  its  use  is  to 
fit  over  an  angler's  shoulders  and  to  snap  on  the 
rod.  It  helps  him  lift  the  fish,  puts  his  shoulders 
more  into  play,  rests  his  arms.  But  I  had  never 
worn  one.    I  was  afraid  of  it. 

"Suppose  he  pulls  me  overboard,  with  that  on!" 
I  exclaimed.    "He'll  drown  me!" 

"We'll  hold  on  to  you,"  replied  Dan,  cheerily,  as 
he  strapped  it  around  me. 

Later  it  turned  out  that  I  had  exactly  the  right 

64 


TWO  FIGHTS  WITH  SWORDFISH 


view  concerning  this  harness,  for  Dustin  Farnum  was 
nearly  pulled  overboard  and —  But  I  have  not  space 
for  that  story  here.  My  brother  Rome  wants  to 
write  that  story,  anyhow,  because  it  is  so  funny,  he 
says. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  fact  soon  manifested  it- 
self to  me  that  I  could  lift  a  great  deal  more  with 
said  harness  to  help.  The  big  fish  began  to  come 
nearer  and  also  he  began  to  get  mad.  Here  I  for- 
got the  pain  in  my  hands.  I  grew  enthusiastic. 
And  foolishly  I  bragged.  Then  I  lifted  so  hard  that 
I  cracked  the  great  Conroy  rod. 

Dan  threw  up  his  hands.  He  quit,  same  as  he 
quit  the  first  day  out,  when  I  hooked  the  broadbill 
and  the  reel  froze. 

"Disqualified  fish,  even  if  you  ketch  him — which 
you  won't,"  he  said,  dejectedly. 

"Crack  goes  thirty-five  dollars!"  exclaimed  my 
brother.  "Sure  is  funny,  brother,  how  you  can 
decimate  good  money  into  the  general  atmosphere!" 

If  there  really  is  anything  fine  in  the  fighting  of 
a  big  fish,  which  theory  I  have  begun  to  doubt,  cer- 
tainly Captain  Dan  and  Brother  R.  C.  did  not 
know  it. 

Remarks  were  forthcoming  from  me,  I  am  ashamed 
to  state,  that  should  not  have  been.  Then  I  got 
Dan  to  tie  splints  on  the  rod,  after  which  I  fought 
my  quarry  some  more.  The  splints  broke.  Dan 
had  to  bind  the  cracked  rod  with  heavy  pieces  of 
wood  and  they  added  considerable  weight  to  what 
had  before  felt  like  a  ton. 

The  fish  had  been  hooked  at  eleven  o'clock  and 
it  was  now  five.    We  had  drifted  or  been  pulled  into 

5  65 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


the  main  channel,  where  strong  currents  and  a 
choppy  sea  made  the  matter  a  pretty  serious  and 
uncomfortable  one.  Here  I  expended  all  I  had  left 
in  a  short  and  furious  struggle  to  bring  the  fish  up, 
if  not  to  gaff,  at  least  so  we  could  see  what  he  looked 
like.  How  strange  and  unfathomable  a  feeling  this 
mystery  of  him  gave  rise  to!  If  I  could  only  see  him 
once,  then  he  could  get  away  and  welcome.  Captain 
Dan,  in  anticipation  of  a  need  of  much  elbow  room 
in  that  cockpit,  ordered  my  brother  and  the  ladies 
to  go  into  the  cabin  or  up  on  top.  And  they  all 
scrambled  up  and  lay  flat  on  the  deck-roof,  with 
their  heads  over,  watching  me.  They  had  to  hold 
on  some,  too.  In  fact,  they  were  having  the  time 
of  their  lives. 

My  supreme  effort  brought  the  fish  within  the 
hundredth  foot  length  of  line — then  my  hands  and 
my  back  refused  any  more. 

"Dan,  here's  the  great  chance  you've  always  hank- 
ered for!"  I  said.  "Now  let's  see  you  pull  him 
right  in!" 

And  I  passed  him  the  rod  and  got  up.  Dan  took 
it  with  the  pleased  expression  of  a  child  suddenly 
and  wonderfully  come  into  possession  of  a  long- 
unattainable  toy.  Captain  Dan  was  going  to  pull 
that  fish  right  up  to  the  boat.  He  was!  Now  Dan 
is  big — he  weighs  two  hundred;  he  has  arms  and 
hands  like  the  limbs  of  a  Vulcan.  Perhaps  Dan 
had  every  reason  to  believe  he  would  pull  the  fish 
right  up  to  the  boat.  But  somehow  I  knew  that  he 
would  not. 

My  fish,  perhaps  feeling  a  new  and  different  and 
mightier  hand  at  the  rod,  showed  how  he  liked  it  by 

66 


TWO  FIGHTS  WITH  SWORDFISH 


a  magnificent  rush — the  greatest  of  the  whole  fight 
— and  he  took  about  five  hundred  feet  of  line. 

Dan's  expression  changed  as  if  by  magic. 

"Steer  the  boat!    Port!    Port!"  he  yelled. 

Probably  I  could  not  run  a  boat  right  with  per- 
fectly fresh  and  well  hands,  and  with  my  lacerated 
and  stinging  ones  I  surely  made  a  mess  of  it.  This 
brought  language  from  my  boatman — well,  to  say 
the  least,  quite  disrespectable.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, I  got  the  boat  around  and  we  ran  down  on  the 
fish.  Dan,  working  with  long,  powerful  sweeps  of 
the  rod,  got  the  line  back  and  the  fish  close.  The 
game  began  to  look  great  to  me.  All  along  I  had 
guessed  this  fish  to  be  a  wonder;  and  now  I  knew  it. 

Hauling  him  close  that  way  angered  him.  He 
made  another  rush,  long  and  savage.  The  line 
smoked  off  that  reel.  Dan's  expression  was  one  of 
utmost  gratification  to  me.  A  boatman  at  last  cor- 
nered— tied  up  to  a  whale  of  a  fish ! 

Somewhere  out  there  a  couple  of  hundred  yards 
the  big  fish  came  up  and  roared  on  the  surface.  I 
saw  only  circling  wake  and  waves  like  those  behind 
a  speedy  motor-boat.  But  Dan  let  out  a  strange 
shout,  and  up  above  the  girls  screamed,  and  brother 
Rome  yelled  murder  or  something.  I  gathered  that 
he  had  a  camera. 

"Steady  up  there!"  I  called  out.  "If  you  fall 
overboard  it's  good  night!  .  .  .  For  we  want  this 
fish!" 

I  had  all  I  could  do.  Dan  would  order  me  to 
steer  this  way  and  that — to  throw  out  the  clutch — 
to  throw  it  in.  Still  I  was  able  to  keep  track  of 
events.    This  fish  made  nineteen  rushes  in  the  sue- 

67 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


ceeding  half-hour.  Never  for  an  instant  did  Cap- 
tain Dan  let  up.  Assuredly  during  that  time  he 
spent  more  force  on  the  fish  than  I  had  in  six  hours. 

The  sea  was  bad,  the  boat  was  rolling,  the  cock- 
pit was  inches  deep  under  water  many  a  time.  I 
was  hard  put  to  it  to  stay  at  my  post;  and  what 
saved  the  watchers  above  could  not  be  explained 
by  me. 

"Mebbe  I  can  hold  him  now — a  little,"  called 
Dan  once,  as  he  got  the  hundred-foot  mark  over  the 
reel.    "Strap  the  harness  on  me!" 

I  fastened  the  straps  round  Dan's  broad  shoul- 
ders. His  shirt  was  as  wet  as  if  he  had  fallen  over- 
board. Maybe  some  of  that  wet  was  spray.  His 
face  was  purple,  his  big  arms  bulging,  and  he  whistled 
as  he  breathed. 

"Good-by,  Dan.  This  will  be  a  fitting  end  for 
a  boatman,"  I  said,  cheerfully,  as  I  dove  back  to 
the  wheel. 

At  six  o'clock  our  fish  was  going  strong  and  Dan 
was  tiring  fast.  He  had,  of  course,  worked  too 
desperately  hard. 

Meanwhile  the  sun  sank  and  the  sea  went  down. 
All  the  west  was  gold  and  red,  with  the  towers  of 
Church  Rock  spiring  the  horizon.  A  flock  of  gulls 
were  circling  low,  perhaps  over  a  school  of  tuna. 
The  white  cottages  of  Avalon  looked  mere  specks 
on  the  dark  island. 

Captain  Dan  had  the  swordfish  within  a  hundred 
feet  of  the  boat  and  was  able  to  hold  him.  This 
seemed  hopeful.  It  looked  now  just  a  matter  of 
a  little  more  time.    But  Dan  needed  a  rest. 

I  suggested  that  my  brother  come  down  and  take 


FOUR  MARLIN  SWORDFISH  IN  ONE  DAY 


TWO  FIGHTS  WITH  SWORDFISH 


a  hand  in  the  final  round,  which  I  frankly  confessed 
was  liable  to  be  hell. 

"Not  on  your  life!"  was  the  prompt  reply.  "I 
want  to  begin  on  a  little  swordfish!  .  .  .  Why,  that — 
that  fish  hasn't  waked  up  yet!" 

And  I  was  bound  to  confess  there  seemed  to  me 
to  be  a  good  deal  of  sense  in  what  he  said. 

"Dan,  I'll  take  the  rod — rest  you  a  bit — so  you 
can  finish  him,"  I  offered. 

The  half-hour  Dan  recorded  as  my  further  work 
on  this  fish  will  always  be  a  dark  and  poignant  blank 
in  my  fishing  experience.  When  it  was  over  twi- 
light had  come  and  the  fish  was  rolling  and  circling 
perhaps  fifty  yards  from  the  boat. 

Here  Dan  took  the  rod  again,  and  with  the  har- 
ness on  and  fresh  gloves  went  at  the  fish  in  grim 
determination. 

Suddenly  the  moon  sailed  out  from  behind  a  fog- 
bank  and  the  sea  was  transformed.  It  was  as 
beautiful  as  it  was  lucky  for  us. 

By  Herculean  effort  Dan  brought  the  swordfish 
close.  If  any  angler  doubts  the  strength  of  a  twenty- 
four  thread  line  his  experience  is  still  young.  That 
line  was  a  rope,  yet  it  sang  like  a  banjo  string. 

Leaning  over  the  side,  with  two  pairs  of  gloves 
on,  I  caught  the  double  line,  and  as  I  pulled  and  Dan 
reeled  the  fish  came  up  nearer.  But  I  could  not 
see  him.  Then  I  reached  the  leader  and  held  on  as 
for  dear  life. 

"I've  got  the  leader!"  I  yelled.    "Hurry,  Dan!" 

Dan  dropped  the  rod  and  reached  for  his  gaff. 
But  he  had  neglected  to  unhook  the  rod  from  the 
harness,  and  as  the  fish  lunged  and  tore  the  leader 

69 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


away  from  me  there  came  near  to  being  disaster. 
However,  Dan  got  straightened  out  and  anchored 
in  the  chair  and  began  to  haul  away  again.  It 
appeared  we  had  the  fish  almost  done,  but  he  was 
so  big  that  a  mere  movement  of  his  tail  irresistibly 
drew  out  the  line. 

Then  the  tip  of  the  rod  broke  off  short  just  even 
with  the  splints  and  it  slid  down  the  line  out  of  sight. 
Dan  lowered  the  rod  so  most  of  the  strain  would 
come  on  the  reel,  and  now  he  held  like  grim  death. 

"Dan,  if  we  don't  make  any  more  mistakes  we'll 
get  that  fish!"  I  declared. 

The  sea  was  almost  calm  now,  and  moon-blanched 
so  that  we  could  plainly  see  the  line.  Despite  Dan's 
efforts,  the  swordfish  slowly  ran  off  a  hundred  feet 
more  of  line.  Dan  groaned.  But  I  yelled  with 
sheer  exultation.  For,  standing  up  on  the  gunwale, 
I  saw  the  swordfish.  He  had  come  up.  He  was 
phosphorescent — a  long  gleam  of  silver — and  he 
rolled  in  the  unmistakable  manner  of  a  fish  nearly 
beaten. 

Suddenly  he  headed  for  the  boat.  It  was  a  strange 
motion.  I  was  surprised — then  frightened.  Dan 
reeled  in  rapidly.  The  streak  of  white  gleamed 
closer  and  closer.  It  was  like  white  fire — a  long, 
savage,  pointed  shape. 

"Look!  Look!"  I  yelled  to  those  above.  "Don't 
miss  it!  .  .  .  Oh,  great!" 

"He's  charging  the  boat!"  hoarsely  shouted  Dan. 

"He's  all  in!"  yelled  my  brother. 

I  jumped  into  the  cockpit  and  leaned  over  the 
gunwale  beside  the  rod.  Then  I  grasped  the  line, 
letting  it  slip  through  my  hands.    Dan  wound  in 

70 


TWO  FIGHTS  WITH  SWORDFISH 

with  fierce  energy.  I  felt  the  end  of  the  double 
line  go  by  me,  and  at  this  I  let  out  another  shout 
to  warn  Dan.  Then  I  had  the  end  of  the  leader — 
a  good  strong  grip — and,  looking  down,  I  saw  the 
clear  silver  outline  of  the  hugest  fish  I  had  ever 
seen  short  of  shark  or  whale.  He  made  a  beautiful, 
wild,  frightful  sight.  He  rolled  on  his  back.  Round- 
bill  or  broadbill,  he  had  an  enormous  length  of  sword. 

"Come,  Dan — we've  got  him!"  I  panted. 

Dan  could  not,  dare  not  get  up  then. 

The  situation  was  perilous.  I  saw  how  Dan 
clutched  the  reel,  with  his  big  thumbs  biting  into 
the  line.  I  did  my  best.  My  sight  failed  me  for 
an  instant.  But  the  fish  pulled  the  leader  through 
my  hands.  My  brother  leaped  down  to  help — alas, 
too  late! 

"Let  go,  Dan!    Give  him  line!" 

But  Dan  was  past  that.  Afterward  he  said  his 
grip  was  locked.  He  held,  and  not  another  foot  did 
the  swordfish  get.  Again  I  leaned  over  the  gun- 
wale. I  saw  him — a  monster — pale,  wavering.  His 
tail  had  an  enormous  spread.  I  could  no  longer  see 
his  sword.    Almost  he  was  ready  to  give  up. 

Then  the  double  line  snapped.  I  fell  back  in  the 
boat  and  Dan  fell  back  in  the  chair. 

Nine  hours! 


V 


SAILFISH — THE  ATLANTIC  BROTHER  TO  THE  PACIFIC 
SWORDFISH 

IN  the  winter  of  1916  I  persuaded  Captain  Sam 
Johnson,  otherwise  famous  as  Horse-mackerel 
Sam,  of  Seabright,  New  Jersey,  to  go  to  Long  Key 
with  me  and  see  if  the  two  of  us  as  a  team  could 
not  outwit  those  illusive  and  strange  sailfish  of  the 
Gulf  Stream. 

Sam  and  I  have  had  many  adventures  going  down 
to  sea.  At  Seabright  we  used  to  launch  a  Seabright 
skiff  in  the  gray  gloom  of  early  morning  and  shoot 
the  surf,  and  return  shoreward  in  the  afternoon  to 
ride  a  great  swell  clear  till  it  broke  on  the  sand. 
When  I  think  of  Sam  I  think  of  tuna — those  tor- 
pedoes of  the  ocean.  I  have  caught  many  tuna  with 
Sam,  and  hooked  big  ones,  but  these  giants  are  still 
roving  the  blue  deeps.  Once  I  hooked  a  tuna  off 
Sandy  Hook,  out  in  the  channel,  and  as  I  was  play- 
ing him  the  Lusitania  bore  down  the  channel.  Like 
a  mountain  she  loomed  over  us.  I  felt  like  an  atom 
looking  up  and  up.  Passengers  waved  down  to  us 
as  the  tuna  bent  my  rod.  The  great  ship  passed 
on  in  a  seething  roar — passed  on  to  her  tragic  fate. 
We  rode  the  heavy  swells  she  lifted — and  my  tuna 
got  away. 

78 


SAILFISH 


Sam  Johnson  is  from  Norway.  His  ancestors 
lived  by  fishing.  Sam  knows  and  loves  the  sea. 
He  has  been  a  sailor  before  the  mast,  but  he  is  more 
fisherman  than  sailor.  He  is  a  stalwart  man,  with 
an  iron,  stern,  weather-beaten  face  and  keen  blue 
eyes,  and  he  has  an  arm  like  the  branch  of  an  oak. 
For  many  years  he  has  been  a  market  fisherman  at 
Seabright,  where  on  off  days  he  pursued  the  horse- 
mackerel  for  the  fun  of  it,  and  which  earned  him 
his  name.  Better  than  any  man  I  ever  met  Sam 
knows  the  sea;  he  knows  fish,  he  knows  boats  and 
engines.  And  I  have  reached  a  time  in  my  experi- 
ence of  fishing  where  I  want  that  kind  of  a  boatman. 

Sam  and  I  went  after  sailfish  at  Long  Key  and 
we  got  them.  But  I  do  not  consider  the  experience 
conclusive.  If  it  had  not  been  for  my  hard-earned 
knowledge  of  the  Pacific  swordfish,  and  for  Sam's 
keenness  on  the  sea,  we  would  not  have  been  so  for- 
tunate. We  established  the  record;  but,  what  is 
more  important,  we  showed  what  magnificent  sport 
is  possible.  This  advent  added  much  to  the  at- 
tractiveness of  Long  Key  for  me.  And  Long  Key 
was  attractive  enough  before. 

Sailfish  had  been  caught  occasionally  at  Long 
Key,  during  every  season.  But  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  that,  in  most  instances,  the  capture  of  sail- 
fish had  been  accident — mere  fisherman's  luck. 
Anglers  have  fished  along  the  reef  and  inside,  troll- 
ing with  heavy  tackle  for  anything  that  might 
strike,  and  once  in  a  while  a  sailfish  has  somehow 
hooked  himself.  Mr.  Schutt  tells  of  hooking  one 
on  a  Wilson  spoon,  and  I  know  of  another  angler 

73 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


who  had  this  happen.  I  know  of  one  gentleman 
who  told  me  he  hooked  a  fish  that  he  supposed  was 
a  barracuda,  and  while  he  was  fighting  this  supposed 
barracuda  he  was  interested  in  the  leaping  of  a 
sailfish  near  his  boat.  His  boatman  importuned 
him  to  hurry  in  the  barracuda  so  there  would  be  a 
chance  to  go  after  the  leaping  sailfish.  But  it  turned 
out  that  the  sailfish  was  on  his  hook.  Another 
angler  went  out  with  heavy  rod,  the  great  B-Ocean 
reel,  and  two  big  hooks  (which  is  an  outfit  suitable 
only  for  large  tuna  or  swordfish),  and  this  fellow 
hooked  a  sailfish  which  had  no  chance  and  was  dead 
in  less  than  ten  minutes.  A  party  of  anglers  were 
out  on  the  reef,  fishing  for  anything,  and  they  de- 
cided to  take  a  turn  outside  where  I  had  been  spend- 
ing days  after  sailfish.  Scarcely  had  these  men  left 
the  reef  when  five  sailfish  loomed  up  and  all  of  them, 
with  that  perversity  and  capriciousness  which  makes 
fish  so  incomprehensible,  tried  to  climb  on  board  the 
boat.  One,  a  heavy  fish,  did  succeed  in  hooking 
himself  and  getting  aboard.  I  could  multiply  events 
of  this  nature,  but  this  is  enough  to  illustrate  my 
point — that  there  is  a  vast  difference  between  several 
fishermen  out  of  thousands  bringing  in  several  sail- 
fish in  one  season  and  one  fisherman  deliberately 
going  after  sailfish  with  light  tackle  and  eventually 
getting  them. 

It  is  not  easy.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  extremely 
hard.  It  takes  infinite  patience,  and  very  much  has 
to  be  learned  that  can  be  learned  only  by  experi- 
ence. But  it  is  magnificent  sport  and  worth  any 
effort.  It  makes  tarpon-fishing  tame  by  comparison. 
Tarpon-fishing  is  easy.    Anybody  can  catch  a  tar- 

74 


SAILFISH 


pon  by  going  after  him.  But  not  every  fisherman 
can  catch  a  sailfish.  One  fisherman  out  of  a  hundred 
will  get  his  sailfish,  but  only  one  out  of  a  thousand 
will  experience  the  wonder  and  thrill  and  beauty 
of  the  sport. 

Sailfishing  is  really  swordfishing,  and  herein  lies 
the  secret  of  my  success  at  Long  Key.  I  am  not 
satisfied  that  the  sailfish  I  caught  were  all  Marlin 
and  brothers  to  the  Pacific  Marlin.  The  Atlantic 
fish  are  very  much  smaller  than  those  of  the  Pacific, 
and  are  differently  marked  and  built.  Yet  they  are 
near  enough  alike  to  be  brothers. 

There  are  three  species  that  I  know  of  in  southern 
waters.  The  Histiophorusy  the  sailfish  about  which 
I  am  writing  and  of  which  descriptions  follow.  There 
is  another  species,  Tetrapturus  albidus,  that  is  not 
uncommon  in  the  Gulf  Stream.  It  is  my  impression 
that  this  species  is  larger.  The  Indians,  with  whom 
I  fished  in  the  Caribbean,  tell  of  a  great  swordfish — 
in  Spanish  the  Aguja  de  casta,  and  this  species  must 
be  related  to  Xiphias,  the  magnificent  flatbilled 
swordfish  of  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific. 

The  morning  of  my  greatest  day  with  sailfish  I 
was  out  in  the  Gulf  Stream,  seven  miles  offshore, 
before  the  other  fishermen  had  gotten  out  of  bed. 
We  saw  the  sun  rise  ruddy  and  bright  out  of  the 
eastern  sea,  and  we  saw  sailfish  leap  as  if  to  welcome 
the  rising  of  the  lord  of  day.  A  dark,  glancing  ripple 
wavered  over  the  water;  there  was  just  enough  swell 
to  make  seeing  fish  easy. 

I  was  using  a  rod  that  weighed  nine  ounces  over 
all,  and  twelve  hundred  feet  of  fifteen-thread  line. 

75 


TALES  OF  FISHES 

I  was  not  satisfied  then  that  the  regular  light  outfit 
of  the  Tuna  Club,  such  as  I  used  at  Avalon,  would 
do  for  sailfish.  No.  9  breaks  of  its  own  weight. 
And  I  have  had  a  sailfish  run  off  three  hundred  yards 
of  line  and  jump  all  the  time  he  was  doing  it.  Be- 
sides, nobody  knows  how  large  these  sailfish  grow. 
I  had  hold  of  one  that  would  certainly  have  broken 
my  line  if  he  had  not  thrown  the  hook. 

On  this  memorable  day  I  had  scarcely  trolled  half 
a  mile  out  into  the  Stream  before  I  felt  that  inex- 
plicable rap  at  my  bait  which  swordfish  and  sailfish 
make  with  their  bills.  I  jumped  up  and  got  ready. 
I  saw  a  long  bronze  shape  back  of  my  bait.  Then 
I  saw  and  felt  him  take  hold.  He  certainly  did  not 
encounter  the  slightest  resistance  in  running  out 
my  line.  He  swam  off  slowly.  I  never  had  Sam 
throw  out  the  clutch  and  stop  the  boat  until  after 
I  had  hooked  the  fish.  I  wanted  the  boat  to  keep 
moving,  so  if  I  did  get  a  chance  to  strike  at  a  fish 
it  would  be  with  a  tight  line.  These  sailfish  are 
wary  and  this  procedure  is  difficult.  If  the  fish  had 
run  off  swiftly  I  would  have  struck  sooner.  Every- 
thing depends  on  how  he  takes  the  bait.  This  fellow 
took  fifty  feet  of  line  before  I  hooked  him. 

He  came  up  at  once,  and  with  two-thirds  of  his 
body  out  of  the  water  he  began  to  skitter  toward  us. 
He  looked  silver  and  bronze  in  the  morning  light. 
There  was  excitement  on  board.  Sam  threw  out 
the  clutch.  My  companions  dove  for  the  cameras, 
and  we  all  yelled.  The  sailfish  came  skittering  tow- 
ard us.  It  was  a  spectacular  and  thrilling  sight. 
He  was  not  powerful  enough  to  rise  clear  on  his  tail 
and  do  the  famous  trick  of  the  Pacific  swordfish — 

76 


SAILFISH 


u  walking  on  the  water."  But  he  gave  a  mighty  good 
imitation.  Then  before  the  cameras  got  in  a  snap 
he  went  down.  And  he  ran,  to  come  up  far  astern 
and  begin  to  leap.  I  threw  off  the  drag  and  yelled, 
"Go!" 

This  was  pleasant  for  Sam,  who  kept  repeating, 
"Look  at  him  yump!" 

The  sailfish  evidently  wanted  to  pose  for  pictures, 
for  he  gave  a  wonderful  exhibition  of  high  and  lofty 
tumbling,  with  the  result,  of  course,  that  he  quickly 
exhausted  himself.  Then  came  a  short  period  dur- 
ing which  he  sounded  and  I  slowly  worked  him 
closer.  Presently  he  swam  toward  the  boat — the 
old  swordfish  trick.  I  never  liked  it,  but  with  the 
sailfish  I  at  least  was  not  nervous  about  him  at- 
tacking the  boat.  Let  me  add  here  that  this  free- 
dom from  dread — which  is  never  absent  during  the 
fighting  of  a  big  swordfish — is  one  of  the  features  so 
attractive  in  sailfishing.  Besides,  fish  that  have 
been  hooked  for  any  length  of  time,  if  they  are  going 
to  shake  or  break  loose,  always  do  so  near  the  boat. 
We  moved  away  from  this  fellow,  and  presently  he 
came  up  again,  and  leaped  three  more  times  clear, 
making  nineteen  leaps  in  all.  That  about  finished 
his  performance,  so  regretfully  I  led  him  alongside; 
and  Sam,  who  had  profited  by  our  other  days 
of  landing  sailfish,  took  him  cautiously  by  the 
sword,  and  then  by  the  gills,  and  slid  him  into  the 
boat. 

Sailfish  are  never  alike,  except  in  general  outline. 
This  one  was  silver  and  bronze,  with  green  bars, 
rather  faint,  and  a  dark-blue  sail  without  any  spots. 
He  measured  seven  feet  one  inch.    But  we  measured 

77 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


his  quality  by  his  leaps  and  nineteen  gave  him  the 
record  for  us  so  far. 

We  stowed  him  up  in  the  bow  and  got  under  way 
again,  and  scarcely  had  I  let  my  bait  far  enough 
astern  when  a  sailfish  hit  it.  In  fact,  he  rushed  it. 
Quick  as  I  was,  which  was  as  quick  as  a  flash,  I  was 
not  quick  enough  for  that  fish.  He  felt  the  hook 
and  he  went  away.  But  he  had  been  there  long 
enough  to  get  my  bait. 

Just  then  Sam  pointed.  I  saw  a  sailfish  break 
water  a  hundred  yards  away. 

''Look  at  him  yump!"  repeated  Sam,  every  time 
the  fish  came  out,  which,  to  be  exact,  was  five  times. 

"We'll  go  over  and  pick  him  up,"  I  said. 

Sam  and  I  always  argue  a  little  about  the  exact 
spot  where  a  fish  has  broken  water.  I  never  missed 
it  far,  but  Sam  seldom  missed  it  at  all.  He  could 
tell  by  a  slight  foam  always  left  by  the  break.  We 
had  two  baits  out,  as  one  or  another  of  my  com- 
panions always  holds  a  rod.  The  more  baits  out 
the  better!  We  had  two  vicious,  smashing  strikes 
at  the  same  time.  The  fish  on  the  other  rod  let 
go  just  as  I  hooked  mine. 

He  came  up  beautifully,  throwing  the  spray,  glint- 
ing in  the  sun,  an  angry  fish  with  sail  spread  and  his 
fins  going.  Then  on  the  boat  was  the  same  old 
thrilling  bustle  and  excitement  and  hilarity  I  knew 
so  well  and  which  always  pleased  me  so  much. 
This  sailfish  was  a  jumper. 

"Look  at  him  yump!"  exclaimed  Sam,  with  as 
much  glee  as  if  he  had  not  seen  it  before. 

The  cameras  got  busy.  Then  I  was  attracted  by 
something  flashing  in  the  water  nearer  the  boat 

78 


SAILFISH 


than  my  fish.  Suddenly  a  sailfish  leaped,  straight- 
away, over  my  line.  Then  two  leaped  at  once,  both 
directly  over  my  line. 

"Sam,  they'll  cut  my  line!"  I  cried.  "What  do 
you  think  of  that?" 

Suddenly  I  saw  sharp,  dark,  curved  tails  cutting 
the  water.  All  was  excitement  on  board  that  boat 
then. 

"A  school  of  sailfish!    Look!    Look!"  I  yelled. 

I  counted  ten  tails,  but  there  were  more  than 
that,  and  if  I  had  been  quicker  I  could  have  counted 
more.  Presently  they  went  down.  And  I,  return- 
ing to  earth  and  the  business  of  fishing,  discovered 
that  during  the  excitement  my  sailfish  had  taken 
advantage  of  a  perfectly  loose  line  to  free  himself. 
Nine  leaps  we  recorded  him! 

Assuredly  we  all  felt  that  there  would  be  no 
difficulty  in  soon  hooking  up  with  another  sailfish. 
And  precisely  three  minutes  later  I  was  standing  up, 
leaning  forward,  all  aquiver,  watching  my  line  fly 
off  the  reel.  I  hooked  that  fellow  hard.  He  was 
heavy,  and  he  did  not  come  up  or  take  off  any 
length  of  line.  Settling  down  slowly,  he  descended 
three  or  four  hundred  feet,  or  so  it  seemed,  and 
began  to  plug,  very  much  like  an  albacore,  only  much 
heavier.  He  fooled  around  down  there  for  ten  min- 
utes, with  me  jerking  at  him  all  the  time  to  irritate 
him,  before  he  showed  any  sign  of  rising.  At  last 
I  worried  him  into  a  fighting  mood,  and  up  he  came, 
so  fast  that  I  did  not  even  try  to  take  up  the  slack, 
and  he  shot  straight  up.  This  jump,  like  that  of  a 
kingfish,  was  wonderful.  But  it  was  so  quick  that 
the  cameras  could  not  cover  it,  and  we  missed  a 

79 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


great  picture.  He  went  down,  only  to  leap  again. 
I  reeled  in  the  slack  line  and  began  to  jerk  at  him 
to  torment  him,  and  I  got  him  to  jumping  and 
threshing  right  near  the  boat.  The  sun  was  in  the 
faces  of  the  cameras  and  that  was  bad.  And  as  it 
turned  out  not  one  of  these  exposures  was  good. 
What  a  chance  missed!  But  we  did  not  know  that 
then,  and  we  kept  on  tormenting  him  and  snapping 
pictures  of  his  leaps.  In  this  way,  which  was  not 
careless,  but  deliberate,  I  played  with  him  until  he 
shook  out  the  hook.    Fifteen  leaps  was  his  record. 

Then  it  was  interesting  to  see  how  soon  I  could 
raise  another  fish.  I  was  on  the  qui  vive  for  a  while, 
then  settled  back  to  the  old  expectant  watchfulness. 
And  presently  I  was  rewarded  by  that  vibrating 
rap  at  my  bait.  I  stood  up  so  the  better  to  see. 
The  swells  were  just  right  and  the  sun  was  over  my 
shoulder.  I  spied  the  long,  dark  shape  back  of  my 
bait,  saw  it  slide  up  and  strike,  felt  the  sharp  rap — 
and  again.  Then  came  the  gentle  tug.  I  let  out 
line,  but  he  let  go.  Still  I  could  see  him  plainly 
when  the  swell  was  right.  I  began  to  jerk  my 
bait,  to  give  it  a  jumping  motion,  as  I  had  so  often 
done  with  flying-fish  bait  when  after  swordfish. 
He  sheered  off,  then  turned  with  a  rush,  broadside 
on,  with  his  sail  up.  I  saw  him  clearly,  his  whole 
length,  and  he  appeared  blue  and  green  and  silver. 
He  took  the  bait  and  turned  away  from  me,  and 
when  I  struck  the  hook  into  his  jaw  I  felt  that  it 
would  stay.  He  was  not  a  jumper — only  breaking 
clear  twice.  I  could  not  make  him  leap.  He 
fought  hard  enough,  however,  and  with  that  tackle 
took  thirty  minutes  to  land. 

80 


SAILFISH 


It  was  eight  o'clock.  I  had  two  sailfish  in  the 
boat  and  had  fought  two  besides.  And  at  that  time 
I  sighted  the  first  fishing-boat  coming  out  toward 
the  reef.  Before  that  boat  got  out  near  us  I  had 
struck  and  lost  three  more  sailfish,  with  eleven  leaps 
in  all  to  my  credit.  This  boatman  had  followed 
Sam  and  me  the  day  before  and  he  appeared  to  be 
bent  upon  repeating  himself.  I  thought  I  would 
rather  enjoy  that,  because  he  had  two  inexperienced 
anglers  aboard,  and  they,  in  the  midst  of  a  school 
of  striking  sailfish,  would  be  sure  to  afford  some  fun. 
Three  other  boats  came  out  across  the  reef,  ventured 
a  little  way  in  the  Gulf  Stream,  and  then  went  back 
to  grouper  and  barracuda.  But  that  one  boatman, 
B.,  stuck  to  us.  And  right  away  things  began  to 
happen  to  his  anglers.  No  one  so  lucky  in  strikes 
as  a  green  hand!  I  saw  them  get  nine  strikes  with- 
out hooking  a  fish.  And  there  appeared  to  be  a  tur- 
moil on  board  that  boat.  I  saw  B.  tearing  his  hair 
and  the  fishermen  frantically  jerking,  and  then 
waving  rods  and  arms.  Much  as  I  enjoyed  it,  Sam 
enjoyed  it  more.  But  I  was  not  mean  enough  to 
begrudge  them  a  fish  and  believed  that  sooner  or 
later  they  would  catch  one. 

Presently,  when  B.'s  boat  was  just  right  for  his 
anglers  to  see  everything  my  way,  I  felt  a  tug  on 
my  line.  I  leaped  up,  let  the  reel  run.  Then  I 
threw  on  my  drag  and  leaned  over  to  strike.  But 
he  let  go.  Quickly  I  threw  off  the  drag.  The  sail- 
fish came  back.  Another  tug!  I  let  him  run. 
Then  threw  on  the  drag  and  got  ready.  But,  no, 
he  let  go.  Again  I  threw  off  the  drag  and  again  he 
came  back.    He  was  hungry,  but  he  was  cunning, 

6  81 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


too,  and  too  far  back  for  me  to  see.  I  let  him  run 
fifty  feet,  threw  on  the  drag,  and  struck  hard.  No 
go!  I  missed  him.  But  again  I  threw  off  the  drag, 
let  out  more  line  back  to  him,  and  he  took  the  bait 
the  fourth  time,  and  harder  than  ever.  I  let  him 
run  perhaps  a  hundred  feet.  All  the  time,  of 
course,  my  boat  was  running.  I  had  out  a  long  line 
— two  hundred  yards.  Then  I  threw  on  the  drag 
and  almost  cracked  the  rod.  This  time  I  actually 
felt  the  hook  go  in. 

How  heavy  and  fast  he  was !  The  line  slipped  off 
and  I  was  afraid  of  the  drag.  I  threw  it  off — no 
easy  matter  with  that  weight  on  it — and  then  the 
line  whistled.  The  sailfish  was  running  straight 
toward  B.'s  boat  and,  I  calculated,  should  be  close 
to  it. 

"Sam,"  I  yelled,  "watch  him!  If  he  jumps  he'll 
jump  into  that  boat!" 

Then  he  came  out,  the  biggest  sailfish  I  ever  saw, 
and  he  leaped  magnificently,  not  twenty  yards  back 
of  that  boat.  He  must  have  been  beyond  the  lines 
of  the  trolling  anglers.  I  expected  him  to  cross 
them  or  cut  himself  loose.  We  yelled  to  B.  to  steer 
off,  and  while  we  yelled  the  big  sailfish  leaped  and 
leaped,  apparently  keeping  just  as  close  to  the 
boat.  He  certainly  was  right  upon  it  and  he  was 
a  savage  leaper.  He  would  shoot  up,  wag  his  head, 
his  sail  spread  like  the  ears  of  a  mad  elephant,  and 
he  would  turn  clear  over  to  alight  with  a  smack 
and  splash  that  we  plainly  heard.  And  he  had  out 
nine  hundred  feet  of  line.  Because  of  his  size  I 
wanted  him  badly,  but,  badly  as  that  was,  I  fought 
him  without  a  drag,  let  him  run  and  leap,  and  I 

82 


SAILFISH 


hoped  he  would  jump  right  into  that  boat.  After- 
ward these  anglers  told  me  they  expected  him  to 
do  just  that  and  were  scared  to  death.  Also  they 
said  a  close  sight  of  him  leaping  was  beautiful  and 
thrilling  in  the  extreme. 

I  did  not  keep  track  of  all  this  sailfish's  leaps,  but 
Sam  recorded  twenty-three,  and  that  is  enough  for 
any  fisherman.  I  venture  to  state  that  it  will  not 
be  beaten  very  soon.  When  he  stopped  leaping  we 
drew  him  away  from  the  other  boat;  and  settled 
down  to  a  hard  fight  with  a  heavy,  stubborn,  game 
fish.  In  perhaps  half  an  hour  I  had  him  twenty 
yards  away,  and  there  he  stayed  while  I  stood  up 
on  the  stern  to  watch  him  and  keep  clear  of  the  pro- 
peller. He  weaved  from  side  to  side,  exactly  like 
a  tired  swordfish,  and  every  now  and  then  he  would 
stick  out  his  bill  and  swish!  he  would  cut  at  the 
leader.  This  fish  was  not  only  much  larger  than 
any  I  had  seen,  but  also  more  brilliantly  colored. 
There  were  suggestions  of  purple  that  reminded  me 
of  the  swordfish  —  that  royal  purple  game  of  the 
Pacific.  Another  striking  feature  was  that  in  cer- 
tain lights  he  was  a  vivid  green,  and  again,  when 
deeper,  he  assumed  a  strange,  triangular  shape,  much 
like  that  of  a  kite.  That,  of  course,  was  when  he 
extended  the  wide,  waving  sail.  I  was  not  able  to 
see  that  this  sail  afforded  him  any  particular  aid. 
It  took  me  an  hour  to  tire  out  this  sailfish,  and  when 
we  got  him  in  the  boat  he  measured  seven  feet  and 
six  inches,  which  was  four  inches  longer  than  any 
record  I  could  find  then. 

At  eleven  o'clock  I  had  another  in  the  boat,  mak- 
ing four  sailfish  in  all.    We  got  fourteen  jumps  out 

83 


TALES  OF  FISHES 

of  this  last  one.  That  was  the  end  of  my  remark- 
able luck,  though  it  was  luck  to  me  to  hook  other 
sailfish  during  the  afternoon,  and  running  up  the 
number  of  leaps.  I  am  proud  of  that,  anyway,  and 
to  those  who  criticized  my  catch  as  unsportsman- 
like I  could  only  say  that  it  was  a  chance  of  a 
lifetime  and  I  was  after  photographs  of  leaping 
sailfish.  Besides,  I  had  a  great  opportunity  to 
beat  my  record  of  four  swordfish  in  one  day  at 
Clemente  Island  in  the  Pacific.  But  I  was  not 
equal  to  it. 

I  do  not  know  how  to  catch  sailfish  yet,  though  I 
have  caught  a  good  many.  The  sport  is  young  and 
it  is  as  difficult  as  it  is  trying.  This  catch  of  mine 
made  fishermen  flock  to  the  Stream  all  the  rest  of 
the  season,  and  more  fish  were  caught  than  for- 
merly. But  the  proportion  held  about  the  same,  al- 
though I  consider  that  fishing  for  a  sailfish  and  catch- 
ing one  is  a  great  gain  in  point.  Still,  we  do  not 
know  much  about  sailfish  or  how  to  take  them.  If 
I  got  twenty  strikes  and  caught  only  four  fish,  very 
likely  the  smallest  that  bit,  I  most  assuredly  was 
not  doing  skilful  fishing  as  compared  with  other 
kinds  of  fishing.  And  there  is  the  rub.  Sailfish  are 
not  any  other  kind  of  fish.  They  have  a  wary  and 
cunning  habit,  with  an  exceptional  occasion  of  blind 
hunger,  and  they  have  small,  bony  jaws  into  which 
it  is  hard  to  sink  a  hook.  Not  one  of  my  sailfish 
was  hooked  deep  down.  Yet  I  let  nearly  all  of  them 
run  out  a  long  line.  Moreover,  as  I  said  before,  if 
a  sailfish  is  hooked  there  are  ten  chances  to  one  that 
he  will  free  himself. 

84 


MEMORABLE  OF  LONG  KEY 


LEAPING  SAILFISH 


SAILtlSH 


This  one  thing,  then,  I  believe  I  have  proved  to 
myself — that  the  sailfish  is  the  gamest,  the  most 
beautiful  and  spectacular,  and  the  hardest  fish  to 
catch  on  light  tackle,  just  as  his  brother,  the  Pacific 
swordfish,  is  the  grandest  fish  to  take  on  the  heaviest 
of  tackle. 

Long  Key,  indeed,  has  its  charm.  Most  all  the 
anglers  who  visit  there  go  back  again.  Only  the 
queer  ones — and  there  are  many — who  want  three 
kinds  of  boats,  and  nine  kinds  of  bait,  and  a  deep- 
sea  diver  for  a  boatman,  and  tackle  that  cannot  be 
broken,  and  smooth,  calm  seas  always,  and  five 
hundred  pounds  of  fish  a  day — only  that  kind 
complain  of  Long  Key  and  kick — and  yet  go  back 
again! 

Sailfish  will  draw  more  and  finer  anglers  down  to 
the  white  strip  of  color  that  shines  white  all  day 
under  a  white  sun  and  the  same  all  night  under 
white  stars.  But  it  is  not  alone  the  fish  that  draws 
real  sportsmen  to  a  place  and  makes  them  love  it 
and  profit  by  their  return.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the 
place — the  mystery,  like  that  of  the  little  hermit- 
crab,  which  crawls  over  the  coral  sand  in  his  stolen 
shell,  and  keeps  to  his  lonely  course,  and  loves  his 
life  so  well — sunshine,  which  is  best  of  all  for  men; 
and  the  wind  in  the  waving  palms;  and  the  lonely, 
wandering  coast  with  the  eternal  moan  out  on  the 
reefs,  the  sweet,  fresh  tang,  the  clear,  antiseptic 
breath  of  salt,  and  always  by  the  glowing,  hot, 
colorful  day  or  by  the  soft  dark  night  with  its 
shadows  and  whisperings  on  the  beach,  that  signifi- 
cant presence — the  sense  of  something  vaster  than 
the  heaving  sea. 

85 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


Light  Tackle  in  the  Gulf  Stream 

In  view  of  the  present  controversy  between  light- 
tackle  and  heavy-tackle  champions,  I  think  it  ad- 
visable for  me  to  state  more  definitely  my  stand 
on  the  matter  of  light  tackle  before  going  on  with 
a  story  about  it. 

There  is  a  sharp  line  to  be  drawn  between  light 
tackle  that  is  right  and  light  tackle  that  is  wrong. 
So  few  anglers  ever  seem  to  think  of  the  case  of  the 
poor  fish!  In  Borneo  there  is  a  species  of  lightning- 
bug  that  tourists  carry  around  at  night  on  spits, 
delighted  with  the  novelty.  But  is  that  not  rather 
hard  on  the  lightning-bugs?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  if 
we  are  to  develop  as  anglers  who  believe  in  conserva- 
tion and  sportsmanship,  we  must  consider  the  fish 
— his  right  to  life,  and,  especially  if  he  must  be 
killed,  to  do  it  without  brutality. 

Brutal  it  is  to  haul  in  a  fish  on  tackle  so  heavy 
that  he  has  no  chance  for  his  life;  likewise  it  is 
brutal  to  hook  a  fish  on  tackle  so  light  that,  if  he 
does  not  break  it,  he  must  be  followed  around  and 
all  over,  chased  by  a  motor-boat  hour  after  hour, 
until  he  practically  dies  of  exhaustion. 

I  have  had  many  tarpon  and  many  tuna  taken  off 
my  hooks  by  sharks  because  I  was  using  tackle  too 
light.  It  never  appeared  an  impossible  feat  to 
catch  Marlin  swordfish  on  a  nine-thread  line,  nor 
sailfish  on  a  six-thread  line.  But  those  lines  are  too 
light. 

My  business  is  to  tell  stories.  If  I  can  be  so  for- 
tunate as  to  make  them  thrilling  and  pleasing,  for 
the  edification  of  thousands  who  have  other  business 

86 


SAILFISH 


and  therefore  less  leisure,  then  that  is  a  splendid 
thing  for  me.  It  is  a  responsibility  that  I  appre- 
ciate. But  on  the  other  hand  I  must  tell  the  truth, 
I  must  show  my  own  development,  I  must  be  of 
service  to  the  many  who  have  so  much  more  time 
to  read  than  fish.  It  is  not  enough  to  give  pleas- 
ure merely;  a  writer  should  instruct.  And  if  what 
I  say  above  offends  any  fisherman,  I  am  sorry,  and 
I  suggest  that  he  read  it  twice. 

What  weight  tackle  to  use  is  not  such  a  hard 
problem  to  decide.  All  it  takes  is  some  experience. 
To  quote  Mr.  Bates,  "The  principle  is  that  the  angler 
should  subdue  the  fish  by  his  skill  with  rod  and 
line,  and  put  his  strength  into  the  battle  to  end  it, 
and  not  employ  a  worrying  process  to  a  frightened 
fish  that  does  not  know  what  it  is  fighting. " 


YI 

GULF  STREAM  FISHING 

SOME  years  have  passed  since  I  advocated  light- 
tackle  fishing  at  Long  Key.  In  the  early  days 
of  this  famous  resort  most  fishermen  used  hand 
lines  or  very  heavy  outfits.  The  difficulties  of  in- 
troducing a  sportsman-like  ideal  have  been  mani- 
fold. A  good  rule  of  angling  philosophy  is  not  to 
interfere  with  any  fisherman's  peculiar  ways  of  being 
happy,  unless  you  want  to  be  hated.  It  is  not  easy 
to  influence  a  majority  of  men  in  the  interests  of 
conservation.  Half  of  them  do  not  know  the  con- 
ditions and  are  only  out  for  a  few  days'  or  weeks' 
fun;  the  rest  do  not  care.  But  the  facts  are  that 
all  food  fish  and  game  fish  must  be  conserved.  The 
waste  has  been  enormous.  If  fishermen  will  only 
study  the  use  of  light  tackle  they  will  soon  appre- 
ciate a  finer  sport,  more  fun  and  gratification,  and 
a  saving  of  fish. 

Such  expert  and  fine  anglers  as  Crowninshield, 
Heilner,  Cassiard,  Lester,  Conill,  and  others  are  all 
enthusiastic  about  light  tackle  and  they  preach  the 
gospel  of  conservation. 

But  the  boatmen  of  Long  Key,  with  the  exception 
of  Jordon,  are  all  against  light  tackle.  I  must  say 
that  James  Jordon  is  to  be  congratulated  and  recom- 

88 


GULF  STREAM  FISHING 


mended.  The  trouble  at  Long  Key  is  that  new 
boatmen  are  hired  each  season,  and,  as  they  do  not 
own  their  boats,  all  their  interest  centers  in  as  big 
a  catch  as  possible  for  each  angler  they  take  out,  in 
the  hope  and  expectation,  of  course,  of  a  generous 
tip.  Heavy  tackle  means  a  big  catch  and  light 
tackle  the  reverse.  And  so  tons  of  good  food  and 
game  fish  are  brought  in  only  to  be  thrown  to  the 
sharks.  I  mention  this  here  to  give  it  a  wide  pub- 
licity. It  is  criminal  in  these  days  and  ought  to  be 
stopped. 

The  season  of  1918  was  a  disappointment  in  regard 
to  any  great  enthusiasm  over  the  use  of  light  tackle. 
We  have  tried  to  introduce  principles  of  the  Tuna 
Club  of  Avalon.  President  Coxe  of  the  Pacific 
organization  is  doing  much  to  revive  the  earlier  ideals 
of  Doctor  Holder,  founder  of  the  famous  club.  This 
year  at  Long  Key  a  number  of  prizes  were  of- 
fered by  individual  members.  The  contention  was 
that  the  light  tackle  specified  was  too  light.  This 
is  absolutely  a  mistake.  I  have  proved  that  the 
regulation  Tuna  Club  nine-thread  line  and  six- 
ounce  tip  are  strong  enough,  if  great  care  and  skill 
be  employed,  to  take  the  tricky,  hard-jawed,  wild- 
leaping  sailfish. 

And  for  bonefish,  that  rare  fighter  known  to  so 
few  anglers,  the  three-six  tackle — a  three-ounce  tip 
and  six-thread  line — is  just  the  ideal  rig  to  make 
the  sport  exceedingly  difficult,  fascinating,  and 
thrilling.  Old  bonefishermen  almost  invariably  use 
heavy  tackle — stiff  rods  and  twelve-  or  fifteen-thread 
lines.  They  have  their  arguments,  and  indeed  these 
are  hard  nuts  to  crack.    They  claim  three-six  for 

39 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


the  swift  and  powerful  bonefish  is  simply  absurd. 
No!  I  can  prove  otherwise.  But  that  must  be 
another  story. 

Some  one  must  pioneer  these  sorely  needed  re- 
forms. It  may  be  a  thankless  task,  but  it  is  one 
that  some  of  us  are  standing  by.  We  need  the  help 
of  brother  anglers. 

One  morning  in  February  there  was  a  light  breeze 
from  the  north  and  the  day  promised  to  be  ideal. 
We  ran  out  to  the  buoy  and  found  the  Gulf  Stream 
a  very  dark  blue,  with  a  low  ripple  and  a  few 
white-caps  here  and  there. 

Above  the  spindle  we  began  to  see  sailfish  jumping 
everywhere.  One  leaped  thirteen  times,  and  another 
nineteen.  Many  of  them  came  out  sidewise,  with 
a  long,  sliding  plunge,  which  action  at  first  I  took  to 
be  that  made  by  a  feeding  fish.  After  a  while,  how- 
ever, and  upon  closer  view,  I  changed  my  mind 
about  this. 

My  method^  upon  seeing  a  fish  jump,  was  to  speed 
up  the  boat  until  we  were  in  the  vicinity  where  the 
fish  had  come  up.  Then  we  would  slow  down  and 
begin  trolling,  with  two  baits  out,  one  some  forty 
or  fifty  feet  back  and  the  other  considerably  farther. 

We  covered  several  places  where  we  had  seen  the 
sheetlike  splashes;  and  at  the  third  or  fourth  I 
felt  the  old  electrifying  tap  at  my  bait.  I  leaped 
up  and  let  my  bait  run  back.  The  sailfish  tapped 
again,  then  took  hold  so  hard  and  ran  off  so  swiftly 
that  I  jerked  sooner  than  usual.  I  pulled  the  bait 
away  from  him.  All  this  time  the  boat  was  running. 
Instead  of  winding  in  I  let  the  bait  run  back.  Sud- 

90 


GULF  STREAM  FISHING 

denly  the  sailfish  took  it  fiercely.  I  let  him  run  a 
long  way  before  I  struck  at  him,  and  then  I  called 
to  the  boatman  to  throw  out  the  clutch.  When  the 
boat  is  moving  there  is  a  better  chance  of  a  tight 
line  while  striking,  and  that  is  imperative  if  an  angler 
expects  to  hook  the  majority  of  these  illusive  sail- 
fish.  I  hooked  this  fellow,  and  he  showed  at  once, 
a  small  fish,  and  began  to  leap  toward  the  boat, 
making  a  big  bag  in  the  line.  I  completely  lost  the 
feel  of  his  weight.  When  he  went  down,  and  with 
all  that  slack  line,  I  thought  he  was  gone.  But 
presently  the  line  tightened  and  he  began  to  jump 
in  another  direction.  He  came  out  twice  with  his 
sail  spread,  a  splendid,  vivid  picture;  then  he  took 
to  skittering,  occasionally  throwing  himself  clear, 
and  he  made  some  surface  runs,  splashing  and  thresh- 
ing, and  then  made  some  clean  greyhound-like  leaps. 
In  all  he  cleared  the  water  eleven  times  before  he 
settled  down.  After  that  it  took  me  half  an  hour 
to  land  him.    He  was  not  hurt  and  we  let  him  go. 

Soon  after  we  got  going  again  we  raised  a  school 
of  four  or  more  sailfish.  And  when  a  number  rush 
for  the  baits  it  is  always  exciting.  The  first  fish 
hit  my  bait  and  the  second  took  R.  C.'s.  I  saw  both 
fish  in  action,  and  there  is  considerable  difference 
between  the  hitting  and  the  taking  of  a  bait.  R.  C. 
jerked  his  bait  away  from  his  fish  and  I  yelled  for 
him  to  let  it  run  back.  He  did  so.  A  bronze  and 
silver  blaze  and  a  boil  on  the  water  told  me  how 
hungry  R.  C.'s  sailfish  was.  "Let  him  run  with  it!" 
I  yelled.  Then  I  attended  to  my  own  troubles. 
There  was  a  fish  rapping  at  my  bait.  I  let  out  line, 
yard  after  yard,  but  he  would  not  take  hold,  and,  as 

91 


TALES  OP  FISHES 


R.  C.'s  line  was  sweeping  over  mine,  I  thought  best 
to  reel  in. 

"Hook  him  now!'5  I  yelled. 

I  surely  did  shiver  at  the  way  my  brother  came 
up  with  that  light  tackle.  But  he  hooked  the  sail- 
fish,  and  nothing  broke.  Then  came  a  big  white 
splash  on  the  surface,  but  no  sign  of  the  fish.  R. 
C.'s  line  sagged  down. 

"Look  out !  Wind  in !  He's  coming  at  us !"  I  called. 

"He's  off!"  replied  my  brother. 

That  might  well  have  been,  but,  as  I  expected, 
he  was  not.  He  broke  water  on  a  slack  line  and 
showed  us  all  his  dripping,  colorful  body  nearer  than 
a  hundred  feet.  R.  C.  thereupon  performed  with 
incredible  speed  at  the  reel  and  quickly  had  a  tight 
line.  Mr.  Sailfish  did  not  like  that.  He  slid  out, 
wrathfully  wagging  his  bill,  and  left  a  seamy,  foamy 
track  behind  him,  finally  to  end  that  play  with  a 
splendid  long  leap.  He  was  headed  away  from  us 
now,  with  two  hundred  yards  of  line  out,  going  hard 
and  fast,  and  we  had  to  follow  him.  We  had  a  fine 
straightaway  run  to  recover  the  line.  This  was  a 
thrilling  chase,  and  one,  I  think,  we  never  would 
have  had  if  R.  C.  had  been  using  heavy  tackle. 
The  sailfish  led  us  out  half  a  mile  before  he  sounded. 

Then  in  fifteen  minutes  more  R.  C.  had  him  up 
where  we  could  see  his  purple  and  bronze  colors  and 
the  strange,  triangular  form  of  him,  which  peculiar 
shape  came  mostly  from  the  waving  sail.  I  thought 
I  saw  other  shapes  and  colors  with  him,  and  bent 
over  the  gunwale  to  see  better. 

"He's  got  company.  Two  sharks! — You  want  to 
do  some  quick  work  now  or  good-by  sailfish!" 

92 


GULF  STREAM  FISHING 


A  small  gray  shark  and  a  huge  yellow  shark  were 
coming  up  with  our  quarry.  R.  C.  said  things,  and 
pulled  hard  on  the  light  tackle.  I  got  hold  of  the 
leader  and  drew  the  sailfish  close  to  the  boat.  He 
began  to  thresh,  and  the  big  shark  came  with  a 
rush.  Instinctively  I  let  go  of  the  leader,  which 
action  was  a  blunder.  The  sailfish  saw  the  shark 
and,  waking  up,  he  fought  a  good  deal  harder  than 
before  the  sharks  appeared  upon  the  scene.  He 
took  off  line,  and  got  so  far  away  that  I  gave  up 
any  hope  that  the  sharks  might  not  get  him.  There 
was  a  heavy  commotion  out  in  the  water.  The 
shark  had  made  a  rush.  So  had  the  sailfish,  and  he 
came  right  back  to  the  boat.  R.  C.  reeled  in 
swiftly. 

"Hold  him  hard  now!'5  I  admonished,  and  I  leaped 
up  on  the  stern.  The  sailfish  sheered  round  on  the 
surface,  with  tail  and  bill  out,  while  the  shark  swam 
about  five  feet  under  him.  He  was  a  shovel-nosed, 
big-finned  yellow  shark,  weighing  about  five  hun- 
dred pounds.  He  saw  me.  I  waved  my  hat  at 
him,  but  he  did  not  mind  that.  He  swam  up  toward 
the  surface  and  his  prey.  R.  C.  was  now  handling 
the  light  tackle  pretty  roughly.  It  is  really  remark- 
able what  can  be  done  with  nine-thread.  In  another 
moment  we  would  have  lost  the  sailfish.  The  boat- 
man brought  my  rifle  and  a  shot  scared  the  shark 
away.  Then  we  got  the  sailfish  into  the  boat.  He 
was  a  beautiful  specimen  for  mounting,  weighing 
forty-five  pounds,  the  first  my  brother  had  taken. 

After  that  we  had  several  strikes,  but  not  one  of 
them  was  what  I  could  call  a  hungry,  smashing 
strike.   These  sailfish  are  finicky  biters.    I  had  one 

93 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


rap  at  my  bait  with  his  bill  until  he  knocked  the 
bait  off. 

I  think  the  feature  of  the  day  was  the  sight  of 
two  flying-fish  that  just  missed  boarding  the  boat. 
They  came  out  to  the  left  of  us  and  sailed  ahead 
together.  Then  they  must  have  been  turned  by 
the  wind,  for  they  made  a  beautiful,  graceful  curve 
until  they  came  around  so  that  I  was  sure  they  would 
fly  into  the  boat.  Their  motion  was  indescribably 
airy  and  feathery,  buoyant  and  swift,  with  not  the 
slightest  quiver  of  fins  or  wings  as  they  passed 
within  five  feet  of  me.  I  could  see  through  the 
crystal  wings.  Their  bodies  were  white  and  silvery, 
and  they  had  staring  black  eyes.  They  were  not 
so  large  as  the  California  flying-fish,  nor  did  they 
have  any  blue  color.  They  resembled  the  Cali- 
fornia species,  however,  in  that  same  strange,  hunted 
look  which  always  struck  me.  To  see  these  flying- 
fish  this  way  was  provocative  of  thought.  They 
had  been  pursued  by  some  hungry  devil  of  a  fish, 
and  with  a  birdlike  swiftness  with  which  nature  had 
marvelously  endowed  them  they  had  escaped  the 
enemy.  Here  I  had  at  once  the  wonder  and  beauty 
and  terror  of  the  sea.  These  fish  were  not  leaping 
with  joy.  I  have  not  often  seen  fish  in  the  salt 
water  perform  antics  for  anything  except  flight  or 
pursuit.  Sometimes  kingfish  appear  to  be  playing 
when  they  leap  so  wonderfully  at  sunset  hour,,  but 
as  a  rule  salt-water  fish  do  not  seem  to  be  playful. 

At  Long  Key  the  Gulf  Stream  is  offshore  five 
miles.  The  water  shoals  gradually  anywhere  from 
two  feet  near  the  beach  to  twenty  feet  five  miles 

94 


GULF  STREAM  FISHING 

out  on  the  reef.  When  there  has  been  no  wind  for 
several  days,  which  is  a  rare  thing  for  Long  Key, 
the  water  becomes  crystal  clear  and  the  fish  and 
marine  creatures  are  an  endless  source  of  interest 
to  the  fisherman.  Of  course  a  large  boat,  in  going 
out  on  the  reef,  must  use  the  channel  between  the 
keys,  but  a  small  boat  or  canoe  can  go  anywhere. 
It  is  remarkable  how  the  great  game  fish  come  in 
from  the  Stream  across  the  reef  into  shoal  water. 
Barracuda  come  right  up  to  the  shore,  and  likewise 
the  big  sharks.  The  bottom  is  a  clean,  white,  finely 
ribbed  coral  sand,  with  patches  of  brown  seaweed 
here  and  there  and  golden  spots,  and  in  the  shallower 
water  different  kinds  of  sponges.  Out  on  the  reef  the 
water  is  a  light  green.  The  Gulf  Stream  runs  along 
the  outer  edge  of  the  reef,  and  here  between  Ten- 
nessee Buoy  and  Alligator  Light,  eighteen  miles,  is 
a  feeding-ground  for  sailfish,  kingfish,  amberjack, 
barracuda,  and  other  fishes.  The  ballyhoo  is  the 
main  feed  of  these  fishes,  and  it  is  indeed  a  queer 
little  fish.  He  was  made  by  nature,  like  the  sar- 
dine and  mullet  and  flying-fish,  to  serve  as  food  for 
the  larger  fishes.  The  ballyhoo  is  about  a  foot 
long,  slim  and  flat,  shiny  and  white  on  the  sides 
and  dark  green  on  the  back,  with  a  sharp-pointed, 
bright-yellow  tail,  the  lower  lobe  of  which  is  de- 
veloped to  twice  the  length  of  the  upper.  He  has 
a  very  strange  feature  in  the  fact  that  his  lower  jaw 
resembles  the  bill  of  a  snipe,  being  several  inches 
long,  sharp  and  pointed  and  hard;  but  he  has  no 
upper  lip  or  beak  at  all.  This  half -bill  must  be  used 
in  relation  to  his  food,  but  I  do  not  have  any  idea 
how  this  is  done, 

95 


TALES  OF  FISHES 

One  day  I  found  the  Gulf  Stream  a  mile  off  Ten- 
nessee Buoy,  whereas  on  other  days  it  would  be  close 
in.  On  this  particular  day  the  water  was  a  dark, 
clear,  indigo  blue  and  appreciably  warmer  than  the 
surrounding  sea.  This  Stream  has  a  current  of  sev- 
eral miles  an  hour,  flowing  up  the  coast.  Every- 
where we  saw  the  Portuguese  men-of-war  shining  on 
the  waves.  There  was  a  slight,  cool  breeze  blowing, 
rippling  the  water  just  enough  to  make  fishing 
favorable.  I  saw  a  big  loggerhead  turtle,  weighing 
about  three  hundred  pounds,  coming  around  on  the 
surface  among  these  Portuguese  men-of-war,  and 
as  we  ran  up  I  saw  that  he  was  feeding  on  these 
queer  balloon-like  little  creatures.  Sometimes  he 
would  come  up  under  one  and  it  would  stick  on  his 
back,  and  he  would  turn  laboriously  around  from 
under  it,  and  submerge  his  back  so  he  had  it  floating 
again.  Then  he  would  open  his  cavernous  mouth 
and  take  it  in.  Considering  the  stinging  poison 
these  Portuguese  men-of-war  secrete  about  them, 
the  turtle  must  have  had  a  very  tabasco-sauce  meal. 
Right  away  I  began  to  see  evidence  of  fish  on  the 
surface,  which  is  always  a  good  sign.  We  went 
past  a  school  of  bonita  breaking  the  water  up  into 
little  swirls.  Then  I  saw  a  smashing  break  of  a 
sailfish  coming  out  sideways,  sending  the  water  in 
white  sheets.  We  slowed  down  the  boat  and  got 
our  baits  overboard  at  once.  I  was  using  a  bally- 
hoo bait  hooked  by  a  small  hook  through  the  lips, 
with  a  second  and  larger  hook  buried  in  the  body. 
R.  C.  was  using  a  strip  of  mullet,  which  for  obvious 
reasons  seems  to  be  the  preferred  bait  from  Palm 
Beach  to  Long  Key.    And  the  obvious  reason  is  that 

96 


GULF  STREAM  FISHING 


nobody  seems  to  take  the  trouble  to  get  what  might 
be  proper  bait  for  sailfish.  Mullet  is  an  easy  bait 
to  get  and  commands  just  as  high  a  price  as  any- 
thing else,  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  is  highway 
robbery.  With  a  bait  like  a  ballyhoo  or  a  shiner 
I  could  get  ten  bites  to  one  with  mullet. 

We  trolled  along  at  slow  speed.  The  air  was 
cool,  the  sun  pleasant,  the  sea  beautiful,  and  this 
was  the  time  to  sit  back  and  enjoy  a  sense  of  free- 
dom and  great  space  of  the  ocean,  and  watch  for 
leaping  fish  or  whatever  might  attract  the  eye. 

Here  and  there  we  passed  a  strange  jellyfish,  the 
like  of  which  I  had  never  before  seen.  It  was  about 
as  large  as  a  good-sized  cantaloup,  and  pale,  clear 
yellow  all  over  one  end  and  down  through  the  middle, 
and  then  commenced  a  dark  red  fringe  which  had 
a  waving  motion.  Inside  this  fringe  was  a  scal- 
loped circular  appendage  that  had  a  sucking  motion, 
which  must  have  propelled  it  through  the  water, 
and  it  made  quite  fair  progress.  Around  every  one 
of  these  strange  jellyfish  was  a  little  school  of  tiny 
minnows,  as  clear-colored  as  crystals.  These  all 
swam  on  in  the  same  direction  as  the  drift  of  the 
Gulf  Stream. 

When  we  are  fishing  for  sailfish  everything  that 
strikes  we  take  to  be  a  sailfish  until  we  find  out  it 
is  something  else.  They  are  inconsistent  and  queer 
fish.  Sometimes  they  will  rush  a  bait,  at  other 
times  they  will  tug  at  it  and  then  chew  at  it,  and 
then  they  will  tap  it  with  their  bills.  I  think  I 
have  demonstrated  that  they  are  about  the  hard- 
est fish  to  hook  that  swims,  and  also  on  light  tackle 

they  are  one  of  the  gamest  and  most  thrilling. 
7  97 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


However,  not  one  in  a  hundred  fishermen  who  come 
to  Long  Key  will  go  after  them  with  light  tackle. 
And  likewise  not  one  out  of  twenty-five  sailfish 
brought  in  there  is  caught  by  a  fisherman  who  de- 
liberately went  out  after  sailfish.  Mostly  they  are 
caught  by  accident  while  drags  are  set  for  kingfish 
or  barracuda.  At  Palm  Beach  I  believe  they  fish 
for  them  quite  persistently,  with  a  great  deal  of  suc- 
cess. But  it  is  more  a  method  of  still  fishing  which 
has  no  charms  for  me. 

Presently  my  boatman  yelled,  "Sailfish!"  We 
looked  off  to  port  and  saw  a  big  sailfish  break  water 
nine  times.  He  was  perhaps  five  hundred  yards 
distant.  My  boatman  put  on  speed,  and,  as  my 
boat  is  fast,  it  did  not  take  us  long  to  get  some- 
where near  where  this  big  fish  broke.  We  did  our 
best  to  get  to  the  exact  spot  where  he  came  up, 
then  slowed  down  and  trolled  over  the  place.  In 
this  instance  I  felt  a  light  tap  on  my  bait  and  I 
jumped  up  quickly,  both  to  look  and  let  him  take 
line.  But  I  did  not  see  him  or  feel  him  any  more. 
We  went  on.  I  saw  a  flash  of  bright  silver  back  of 
my  brother's  bait.  At  the  instant  he  hooked  a 
kingfish.  And  then  I  felt  one  cut  my  bait  off. 
Kingfish  are  savage  strikers  and  they  almost  in- 
variably hook  themselves  when  the  drag  is  set. 
But  as  I  fish  for  sailfish  with  a  free-running  reel,  of 
course  I  am  exasperated  when  a  kingfish  takes  hold. 
My  brother  pulled  in  this  kingfish,  which  was  small, 
and  we  rebaited  our  hooks  and  went  on  again. 
I  saw  more  turtles,  and  one  we  almost  ran  over,  he 
was  so  lazy  in  getting  down.  These  big,  cumber- 
some sea  animals,  once  they  get  headed  down  and 

98 


TWIN  TIGERS  OF  THE  SEA — THE  SAVAGE  BARRACUDA 


GULF  STREAM  FISHING 


started,  can  disappear  with  remarkable  rapidity. 
I  rather  enjoy  watching  them,  but  my  boatman, 
who  is  a  native  of  these  parts  and  therefore  a  turtle- 
hunter  by  instinct,  always  wore  a  rather  disappointed 
look  when  we  saw  one.  This  was  because  I  would 
not  allow  him  to  harpoon  it. 

The  absence  of  gulls  along  this  stretch  of  reef  is 
a  feature  that  struck  me.  So  that  once  in  a  while 
when  I  did  see  a  lonely  white  gull  I  watched  him 
with  pleasure.  And  once  I  saw  a  cero  mackerel 
jump  way  in  along  the  reef,  and  even  at  a  mile's 
distance  I  could  see  the  wonderful  curve  he  made. 

The  wind  freshened,  and  all  at  once  it  seemed 
leaping  sailfish  were  all  around  us.  Then  as  we 
turned  the  boat  this  way  and  that  we  had  thrills 
of  anticipation.  Suddenly  R.  C.  had  a  strike.  The 
fish  took  the  bait  hungrily  and  sheered  off  like  an 
arrow  and  took  line  rapidly.  When  R.  C.  hooked 
him  he  came  up  with  a  big  splash  and  shook  himself 
to  free  the  hook.  He  jumped  here  and  there  and 
then  went  down  deep.  And  then  he  took  a  good 
deal  of  line  off  the  reel.  I  was  surprised  to  see  a 
sailfish  stick  his  bill  out  of  the  water  very  much 
closer  to  the  boat  than  where  R.  C.'s  fish  should 
have  been.  I  had  no  idea  then  that  this  was  a  fish 
other  than  the  one  R.  C.  had  hooked.  But  when  he 
cut  the  line  either  with  his  bill  or  his  tail,  and  R.  C. 
wound  it  in,  we  very  soon  discovered  that  it  was 
not  the  fish  that  he  had  hooked.  This  is  one  of  the 
handicaps  of  light  tackle. 

We  went  on  fishing.  Sailfish  would  jump  around 
us  for  a  while  and  then  they  would  stop.  We  would 
not  see  one  for  several  minutes.    It  is  always  very 

99 


TALES  OF  FISHES 

exciting  to  be  among  them  this  way.  Presently  I 
had  one  take  hold  to  run  off  slowly  and  steadily, 
and  I  let  him  go  for  fifty  feet,  and  when  I  struck 
I  tore  the  hook  away  from  him.  Quickly  I  let  slack 
line  run  back  to  him  ten  or  fifteen  feet  at  a  time, 
until  I  felt  him  take  it  once  more.  He  took  it  rather 
suspiciously,  I  felt,  and  I  honestly  believe  that  I 
could  tell  that  he  was  mouthing  or  chewing  the  bait, 
which  made  me  careful  to  let  the  line  run  off  easily 
to  him.  Suddenly  he  rushed  off,  making  the  reel 
smoke.  I  let  him  run  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
and  then  stood  up,  throwing  on  the  drag,  and  when 
the  line  straightened  tight  I  tried  to  jerk  at  him  as 
hard  as  the  tackle  would  stand.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  however,  he  was  going  so  fast  and  hard  that 
he  hooked  himself.  It  is  indeed  seldom  that  I  miss 
one  when  he  runs  like  this.  This  fellow  came  up 
two  hundred  yards  from  the  boat  and  slid  along 
the  water  with  half  of  his  body  raised,  much  like 
one  of  those  coasting-boards  I  have  seen  bathers 
use,  towed  behind  a  motor-launch.  He  went  down 
and  came  up  in  a  magnificent  sheer  leap,  with  his 
broad  sail  shining  in  the  sun.  Very  angry  he  was, 
and  he  reminded  me  of  a  Marlin  swordfish.  Next 
he  went  down,  and  came  up  again  bent  in  a  curve, 
with  the  big  sail  stretched  again.  He  skittered  over 
the  water,  going  down  and  coming  up,  until  he  had 
leaped  seven  times.  This  was  a  big,  heavy  fish, 
and  on  the  light  six-ounce  tip  and  nine-thread  line 
I  had  my  work  cut  out  for  me.  We  had  to  run 
the  boat  toward  him  so  I  could  get  back  my  line. 
Here  was  the  advantage  of  having  a  fast  boat  with 
a  big  rudder.    Otherwise  I  would  have  lost  my 

100 


GULF  STREAM  FISHING 


fish.  After  some  steady  deep  plugging  he  came 
up  again  and  set  my  heart  aflutter  by  a  long  surface 
play  in  which  he  took  off  one  hundred  yards  of  line 
and  then  turned,  leaping  straight  for  the  boat. 
Fortunately  the  line  was  slack  and  I  could  throw  off 
the  drag  and  let  him  run.  Slack  line  never  bothers 
me  when  I  really  get  one  of  these  fish  well  hooked. 
If  he  is  not  well  hooked  he  is  going  to  get  away, 
anyhow.  After  that  he  went  down  into  deep  water 
and  I  had  one  long  hour  of  hard  work  in  bringing 
him  to  the  boat.  Six  hours  later  he  weighed  fifty- 
eight  and  a  half  pounds,  and  as  he  had  lost  a  good 
deal  of  blood  and  dried  out  considerably,  he  would 
have  gone  over  sixty  pounds,  which,  so  far,  is  the 
largest  sailfish  I  know  of  caught  on  light  tackle. 

The  sailfish  were  still  leaping  around  us  and  we 
started  off  again.  The  captain  called  our  attention 
to  a  tail  and  a  sail  a  few  yards  apart  not  far  from 
the  boat.  We  circled  around  them  to  drive  them 
down.  I  saw  a  big  wave  back  of  R.  C.'s  bait  and 
I  yelled,  "Look  out!"  I  felt  something  hit  my 
bait  and  then  hit  it  again.  I  knew  it  was  a  sailfish 
rapping  at  it.  I  let  the  line  slip  off  the  reel.  Just 
then  R.  C.  had  a  vicious  strike  and  when  he  hooked 
the  fish  the  line  snapped.  He  claimed  that  he  had 
jerked  too  hard.  This  is  the  difficulty  with  light 
tackle — to  strike  hard,  yet  not  break  anything.  I 
was  standing  up  and  leaning  forward,  letting  my 
line  slip  off  the  reel,  trying  to  coax  that  sailfish  to 
come  back.  Something  took  hold  and  almost 
jerked  the  rod  out  of  my  hands.  That  was  a  mag- 
nificent strike,  and  of  course  I  thought  it  was  one  of 

the  sailfish.    But  when  I  hooked  him  I  had  my 

101 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


doubts.  The  weight  was  heavy  and  ponderous  and 
tugging.  He  went  down  and  down  and  down.  The 
boatman  said  amberjack.  I  was  afraid  so.  but  I 
still  had  my  hopes.  For  a  while  I  could  not  budge 
him,  and  at  last,  when  I  had  given  up  hope  that  it 
was  a  sailfish,  I  worked  a  good  deal  harder  than  I 
would  have  otherwise.  It  took  me  twenty-five 
minutes  to  subdue  a  forty-pound  amberjack.  Here 
was  proof  of  what  could  be  done  with  light  tackle. 

About  ten-thirty  of  this  most  delightful  and  favor- 
able day  we  ran  into  a  school  of  barracuda.  R.  C. 
hooked  a  small  one,  which  was  instantly  set  upon 
by  its  voracious  comrades  and  torn  to  pieces.  Then 
I  had  a  tremendous  strike,  hard,  swift,  long — every- 
thing to  make  a  tingle  of  nerve  and  blood.  The 
instant  I  struck,  up  out  of  a  flying  splash  rose  a  long, 
sharp,  silver-flashing  tiger  of  the  sea,  and  if  he 
leaped  an  inch  he  leaped  forty  feet.  On  that  light 
tackle  he  was  a  revelation.  Five  times  more  he 
leaped,  straight ,  up,  very  high,  gills  agape,  jaws 
wide,  body  curved — a  sight  for  any  angler.  He 
made  long  runs  and  short  runs  and  all  kinds  of  runs, 
and  for  half  an  hour  he  defied  any  strain  I  dared 
put  on  him.  Eventually  I  captured  him,  and  I  con- 
sidered him  superior  to  a  tarpon  of  equal  or  even 
more  weight. 

Barracuda  are  a  despised  fish,  apparently  because 
of  their  voracious  and  murderous  nature.  But  I 
incline  to  the  belief  that  it  is  because  the  invariable 
use  of  heavy  tackle  has  blinded  the  fishermen  to  the 
wonderful  leaping  and  fighting  qualities  of  this  long- 
nosed,  long-toothed  sea-tiger.    The  few  of  us  who 

have  hooked  barracuda  on  light  tackle  know  him  as 

102 


GULF  STREAM  FISHING 


a  marvelous  performer.  Van  Campen  Heilner  wrote 
about  a  barracuda  he  caught  on  a  bass  rod,  and  he 
is  not  likely  to  forget  it,  nor  will  the  reader  of  his 
story  forget  it. 

R.  C.  had  another  strike,  hooked  his  fish,  and 
brought  it  in  readily.  It  was  a  bonita  of  about  five 
pounds,  the  first  one  my  brother  had  ever  caught. 
We  were  admiring  his  beautiful,  subdued  colors  as 
he  swam  near  the  boat,  when  up  out  of  the  blue 
depths  shot  a  long  gray  form  as  swift  as  lightning. 
It  was  a  big  barracuda.  In  his  rush  he  cut  that 
bonita  in  two.  The  captain  grasped  the  line  and 
yelled  for  us  to  get  the  gaffs.  R.  C.  dropped  the 
rod  and  got  the  small  gaff,  and  as  I  went  for  the  big 
one  I  heard  them  both  yell.  Then  I  bent  over  to 
see  half  a  dozen  big  gray  streaks  rush  for  what  was 
left  of  that  poor  little  bonita.  The  big  barracuda 
with  incredible  speed  and  unbelievable  ferocity  rushed 
right  to  the  side  of  the  boat  at  the  bonita.  He  got 
hold  of  it  and  R.  C.  in  striking  at  him  to  gaff  him 
hit  him  over  the  head  several  times.  Then  the  gaff 
hook  caught  him  and  R.  C.  began  to  lift.  The 
barracuda  looked  to  me  to  be  fully  seven  feet  long 
and  half  as  big  around  as  a  telegraph  pole.  He 
made  a  tremendous  splash  in  the  water.  R.  C.  was 
deluged.  He  and  the  boatman  yelled  in  their  ex- 
citement. But  R.  C.  was  unable  to  hold  the  big 
fish  on  this  small  gaff,  and  I  got  there  too  late.  The 
barracuda  broke  loose.  Then,  equally  incredibly,  he 
turned  with  still  greater  ferocity  and  rushed  the 
bonita  again,  but  before  he  could  get  to  it  another 
and  smaller  barracuda  had  hold  of  it.  At  this  in- 
stant I  leaned  over  with  a  club.    With  one  powerful 

103 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


sweep  I  hit  one  of  the  barracuda  on  the  head.  When 
I  reached  over  again  the  largest  one  was  contending 
with  a  smaller  one  for  the  remains  of  the  bonita.  I 
made  a  vicious  pass  at  the  big  one,  missing  him. 
Quick  as  I  was,  before  I  could  get  back,  the  big  fel- 
low had  taken  the  head  of  the  bonita  and  rushed  off 
with  it,  tearing  the  line  out  of  the  captain's  hands. 
Then  we  looked  at  one  another.  It  had  all  hap- 
pened in  a  minute.  We  were  all  wringing  wet  and 
panting  from  excitement  and  exertion.  This  is  a 
gruesome  tale  of  the  sea  and  I  put  it  here  only  to 
illustrate  the  incomparable  savageness  of  these 
tigers  of  the  Gulf  Stream. 

The  captain  put  the  fish  away  and  cleaned  up  the 
boat  and  we  resumed  fishing.  I  ate  lunch  holding 
the  rod  in  one  hand,  loath  to  waste  any  time  on  this 
wonderful  day.  Sailfish  were  still  jumping  here  and 
there  and  far  away.  The  next  thing  to  happen  was 
that  R.  C.  hooked  a  small  kingfish,  and  at  the  same 
instant  a  big  one  came  clear  out  in  an  unsuccessful 
effort  to  get  my  bait.  This  happened  to  be  near 
the  reef,  and  as  we  were  going  out  I  hooked  a  big 
grouper  that  tried  out  my  small  tackle  for  all  it  was 
worth.  But  I  managed  to  keep  him  from  getting 
on  the  bottom,  and  at  length  brought  him  in.  The 
little  six-ounce  tip  now  looked  like  a  buggy-whip 
that  was  old  and  worn  out.  After  that  nothing  hap- 
pened for  quite  a  little  spell.  We  had  opportunity 
to  get  rested.  Presently  R.  C.  had  a  sailfish  tap  his 
bait  and  tap  it  again  and  tug  at  it  and  then  take 
hold  and  start  away.  R.  C.  hooked  him  and  did 
it  carefully,  trying  not  to  put  too  much  strain  on 
the  line.    Here  is  where  great  skill  is  required. 

104 


GULF  STREAM  FISHING 

But  the  line  broke.  After  that  he  took  one  of  my 
other  tackles.  Something  went  wrong  with  the  en- 
gine and  the  captain  had  to  shut  down  and  we  drifted. 
I  had  a  long  line  out  and  it  gradually  sank.  Some- 
thing took  hold  and  I  hooked  it  and  found  myself 
fast  to  a  deep-sea,  hard-fighting  fish  of  some  kind. 
I  got  him  up  eventually,  and  was  surprised  to  see 
a  great,  broad,  red-colored  fish,  which  turned  out 
to  be  a  mutton-fish,  much  prized  for  food.  I  had 
now  gotten  six  varieties  of  fish  in  the  Gulf  Stream 
and  we  were  wondering  what  next.  I  was  hoping 
it  would  be  a  dolphin  or  a  wahoo.  It  happened, 
however,  to  be  a  beautiful  cero  mackerel,  one  of  the 
shapeliest  and  most  attractive  fish  in  these  waters. 
He  is  built  something  like  the  brook-trout,  except 
for  a  much  sharper  head  and  wider  fins  and  tail. 
But  he  is  speckled  very  much  after  the  manner  of 
the  trout.  We  trolled  on,  and  all  of  a  sudden  raised 
a  school  of  sailfish.  They  came  up  with  a  splashing 
rush  very  thrilling  to  see.  One  hit  R.  C.'s  bait 
hard,  and  then  another,  by  way  of  contrast,  began 
to  tug  and  chew  at  mine.  I  let  the  line  out  slowly. 
And  as  I  did  so  I  saw  another  one  follow  R.  C.'s 
mutilated  bait  which  he  was  bringing  toward  the 
boat.  He  was  a  big  purple-and-bronze  fellow  and 
he  would  have  taken  a  whole  bait  if  it  could  have 
been  gotten  to  him.  But  he  sheered  away,  fright- 
ened by  the  boat.  I  failed  to  hook  my  fish.  It  was 
getting  along  pretty  well  into  the  afternoon  by  this 
time  and  the  later  it  got  the  better  the  small  fish 
and  kingfish  seemed  to  bite.  I  caught  one  barra- 
cuda and  six  kingfish,  while  R.  C.  was  performing 
a  somewhat  similar  feat.    Then  he  got  a  smashing 

105 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


strike  from  a  sailfish  that  went  off  on  a  hard,  fast 
rush,  so  that  he  hooked  it  perfectly.  He  jumped 
nine  times,  several  of  which  leaps  I  photographed. 
He  was  a  good-sized  fish  and  active  and  strong. 
R.  C.  had  him  up  to  the  boat  in  thirty  minutes, 
which  was  fine  work  for  the  light  tackle.  I  made 
sure  that  the  fish  was  as  good  as  caught  and  I  did 
not  look  to  see  where  he  was  hooked.  My  boat- 
man is  not  skilled  in  the  handling  of  the  fish  when 
they  are  brought  in.  Few  boatmen  are.  He  took 
hold  of  the  leader,  and  as  he  began  to  lift  I  saw 
that  the  hook  was  fast  in  the  bill  of  the  sailfish  fully 
six  inches  from  his  mouth.  At  that  instant  the  sail- 
fish began  to  thresh.  I  yelled  to  the  boatman  to 
let  go,  but  either  I  was  not  quick  enough  or  he  did 
not  obey,  for  the  hook  snapped  free  and  the  sailfish 
slowly  swam  away,  his  great  purple-and-blue  spotted 
sail  waving  in  the  water,  and  his  bronze  sides  shining. 
And  we  were  both  glad  that  he  had  gotten  away, 
because  we  had  had  the  fun  out  of  him  and  had 
taken  pictures  of  him  jumping,  and  he  was  now  alive 
and  might  make  another  fisherman  sport  some  day. 


VII 


BONEFISH 

IN  my  experience  as  a  fisherman  the  greatest  pleas- 
ure has  been  the  certainty  of  something  new  to 
learn,  to  feel,  to  anticipate,  to  thrill  over.  An  old 
proverb  tells  us  that  if  you  wish  to  bring  back  the 
wealth  of  the  Indias  you  must  go  out  with  its  equiva- 
lent. Surely  the  longer  a  man  fishes  the  wealthier 
he  becomes  in  experience,  in  reminiscence,  in  love 
of  nature,  if  he  goes  out  with  the  harvest  of  a  quiet 
eye,  free  from  the  plague  of  himself. 

As  a  boy,  fishing  was  a  passion  with  me,  but  no 
more  for  the  conquest  of  golden  sunfish  and  speckled 
chubs  and  horny  catfish  than  for  the  haunting 
sound  of  the  waterfall  and  the  color  and  loneliness 
of  the  cliffs.  As  a  man,  and  a  writer  who  is  forever 
learning,  fishing  is  still  a  passion,  stronger  with  all 
the  years,  but  tempered  by  an  understanding  of 
the  nature  of  primitive  man,  hidden  in  all  of  us,  and 
by  a  keen  reluctance  to  deal  pain  to  any  creature. 
The  sea  and  the  river  and  the  mountain  have  almost 
taught  me  not  to  kill  except  for  the  urgent  needs 
of  life;  and  the  time  will  come  when  I  shall  have 
grown  up  to  that.  When  I  read  a  naturalist  or  a 
biologist  I  am  always  ashamed  of  what  I  have  called 
a  sport.    Yet  one  of  the  truths  of  evolution  is  that 

107 


TALES  OP  FISHES 


not  to  practise  strife,  not  to  use  violence,  not  to  fish 
or  hunt — that  is  to  say,  not  to  fight — is  to  retrograde 
as  a  natural  man.  Spiritual  and  intellectual  growth 
is  attained  at  the  expense  of  the  physical. 

Always,  then,  when  I  am  fishing  I  feel  that  the 
fish  are  incidental,  and  that  the  reward  of  effort 
and  endurance,  the  incalculable  and  intangible 
knowledge  emanate  from  the  swelling  and  infinite 
sea  or  from  the  shaded  and  murmuring  stream.  Thus 
I  assuage  my  conscience  and  justify  the  fun,  the  joy, 
the  excitement,  and  the  violence. 

Five  years  ago  I  had  never  heard  of  a  bonefish. 
The  first  man  who  ever  spoke  to  me  about  this 
species  said  to  me,  very  quietly  with  serious  intent- 
ness:  "Have  you  had  any  experience  with  bone- 
fish?"  I  said  no,  and  asked  him  what  kind  that 
was.  His  reply  was  enigmatical.  "Well,  don't  go 
after  bonefish  unless  you  can  give  up  all  other  fish- 
ing." I  remember  I  laughed.  But  I  never  forgot 
that  remark,  and  now  it  comes  back  to  me  clear 
in  its  significance.  That  fisherman  read  me  as  well 
as  I  misunderstood  him. 

Later  that  season  I  listened  to  talk  of  inexperi- 
enced bonefishermen  telling  what  they  had  done 
and  heard.  To  me  it  was  absurd.  So  much  fishing 
talk  seems  ridiculous,  anyway.  And  the  expert  fish- 
ermen, wherever  they  were,  received  the  expressive 
titles:  "Bonefish  Bugs  and  Bonefish  Nuts!"  Again 
I  heard  arguments  about  tackle  rigged  for  these 
mysterious  fish  and  these  arguments  fixed  my  vague 
impression.  By  and  by  some  bonefishermen  came 
to  Long  Key,  and  the  first  sight  of  a  bonefish  made 
me  curious.    I  think  it  weighed  five  pounds — a  fair- 

108 


BONEFISH 


sized  specimen.  Even  to  my  prejudiced  eye  that 
fish  showed  class.  So  I  began  to  question  the  bone- 
fishermen. 

At  once  I  found  this  type  of  angler  to  be  remark- 
ably reticent  as  to  experience  and  method.  More- 
over, the  tackle  used  was  amazing  to  me.  Stiff  rods 
and  heavy  lines  for  little  fish!  I  gathered  another 
impression,  and  it  was  that  bonefish  were  related 
to  dynamite  and  chain  lightning.  Everybody  who 
would  listen  to  my  questions  had  different  things  to 
say.  No  two  men  agreed  on  tackle  or  bait  or  ground 
or  anything.  I  enlisted  the  interest  of  my  brother 
R.  C,  and  we  decided,  just  to  satisfy  curiosity,  to 
go  out  and  catch  some  bonefish.  The  complacent, 
smug  conceit  of  fishermen!  I  can  see  now  how 
funny  ours  was.  Fortunately  it  is  now  past  tense. 
If  I  am  ever  conceited  again  I  hope  no  one  will  read 
my  stories. 

My  brother  and  I  could  not  bring  ourselves  to 
try  for  bonefish  with  heavy  tackle.  It  was  pre- 
posterous. Three — four — five-pound  fish!  We  had 
seen  no  larger.  Bass  tackle  was  certainly  heavy 
enough  for  us.  So  in  the  innocence  of  our  hearts 
and  the  assurance  of  our  vanity  we  sallied  forth  to 
catch  bonefish. 

That  was  four  years  ago.  Did  we  have  good 
luck?  No!  Luck  has  nothing  to  do  with  bone- 
fishing.  What  happened?  For  one  solid  month 
each  winter  of  those  four  years  we  had  devoted  our- 
selves to  bonefishing  with  light  tackle.  We  stuck 
to  our  colors.  The  space  of  this  whole  volume  would 
not  be  half  enough  to  tell  our  experience — the  amaze, 
the  difficulty,  the  perseverance,  the  defeat,  the  won- 

109 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


der,  and  at  last  the  achievement.  The  season  of 
1918  we  hooked  about  fifty  bonefish  on  three-six 
tackles — that  is,  three-ounce  tips  and  six-thread 
lines — and  we  landed  fourteen  of  them.  I  caught 
nine  and  R.  C.  caught  five.  R.  C.'s  eight-pound 
fish  justified  our  contention  and  crowned  our  efforts. 

To  date,  in  all  my  experience,  I  consider  this 
bonefish  achievement  the  most  thrilling,  fascinat- 
ing, difficult,  and  instructive.  That  is  a  broad  state- 
ment and  I  hope  I  can  prove  it.  I  am  prepared  to 
state  that  I  feel  almost  certain,  if  I  spent  another 
month  bonefishing,  I  would  become  obsessed  and 
perhaps  lose  my  enthusiasm  for  other  kinds  of  fish. 

Why? 

There  is  a  multiplicity  of  reasons.  My  reasons 
range  from  the  exceedingly  graceful  beauty  of  a  bone- 
fish to  the  fact  that  he  is  the  best  food  fish  I  ever 
ate.  That  is  a  wide  range.  He  is  the  wisest,  shy- 
est, wariest,  strangest  fish  I  ever  studied;  and  I 
am  not  excepting  the  great  Xiphias  gladius — the 
broadbill  swordfish.  As  for  the  speed  of  a  bonefish, 
I  claim  no  salmon,  no  barracuda,  no  other  fish  cele- 
brated for  swiftness  of  motion,  is  in  his  class.  A 
bonefish  is  so  incredibly  fast  that  it  was  a  long  time 
before  I  could  believe  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes. 
You  see  him;  he  is  there  perfectly  still  in  the  clear, 
shallow  water,  a  creature  of  fish  shape,  pale  green 
and  silver,  but  crystal-like,  a  phantom  shape,  star- 
ing at  you  with  strange  black  eyes;  then  he  is  gone. 
Vanished!  Absolutely  without  your  seeing  a  move- 
ment, even  a  faint  streak!  By  peering  keenly  you 
may  discern  a  little  swirl  in  the  water.    As  for  the 

strength  of  a  bonefish,  I  actually  hesitate  to  give  my 

no 


BONEFISH 


impressions.  No  one  will  ever  believe  how  powerful 
a  bonefish  is  until  he  has  tried  to  stop  the  rush  and 
heard  the  line  snap.  As  for  his  cunning,  it  is  utterly 
baffling.  As  for  his  biting,  it  is  almost  imperceptible. 
As  for  his  tactics,  they  are  beyond  conjecture. 

I  want  to  append  here  a  few  passages  from  my 
note-books,  in  the  hope  that  a  bare,  bald  statement 
of  fact  will  help  my  argument. 

First  experience  on  a  bonefish  shoal.  This  wide 
area  of  coral  mud  was  dry  at  low  tide.  When  we 
arrived  the  tide  was  rising.  Water  scarcely  a  foot 
deep,  very  clear.  Bottom  white,  with  patches  of 
brown  grass.  We  saw  bonefish  everywhere  and 
expected  great  sport.  But  no  matter  where  we 
stopped  we  could  not  get  any  bites.  Schools  of 
bonefish  swam  up  to  the  boat,  only  to  dart  away. 
Everywhere  we  saw  thin  white  tails  sticking  out,  as 
they  swam  along,  feeding  with  noses  in  the  mud. 
When  we  drew  in  our  baits  we  invariably  found  them 
half  gone,  and  it  was  our  assumption  that  the  blue 
crabs  did  this. 

At  sunset  the  wind  quieted.  It  grew  very  still 
and  beautiful.  The  water  was  rosy.  Here  and 
there  we  saw  swirls  and  tails  standing  out,  and  we 
heard  heavy  thumps  of  plunging  fish.  But  we 
could  not  get  any  bites. 

When  we  returned  to  camp  we  were  told  that  the 
half  of  our  soldier-crab  baits  had  been  sucked  off 
by  bonefish.    Did  not  believe  that. 

Tide  bothered  us  again  this  morning.    It  seems 

exceedingly  difficult  to  tell  one  night  before  what 

the  tide  is  going  to  do  the  next  morning.    At  ten 

111 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


o'clock  we  walked  to  the  same  place  we  were  yester- 
day. It  was  a  bright,  warm  day,  with  just  enough 
breeze  to  ruffle  the  water  and  make  fishing  pleasant, 
and  we  certainly  expected  to  have  good  luck.  But 
we  fished  for  about  three  hours  without  any  sign  of 
a  fish.  This  was  discouraging  and  we  could  not 
account  for  it. 

So  we  moved.  About  half  a  mile  down  the  beach 
I  thought  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  bonefish.  It  was 
a  likely-looking  contrast  to  the  white  marl  all  around. 
Here  I  made  a  long  cast  and  sat  down  to  wait.  My 
brother  lagged  behind.  Presently  I  spied  two  bone- 
fish  nosing  along  not  ten  feet  from  the  shore.  They 
saw  me,  so  I  made  no  attempt  to  drag  the  bait  near 
them,  but  I  called  to  my  brother  and  told  him  to 
try  to  get  a  bait  ahead  of  them.  This  was  a  little 
after  flood-tide.  It  struck  me  then  that  these  sin- 
gular fish  feed  up  the  beach  with  one  tide  and  down 
with  another. 

Just  when  my  brother  reached  me  I  got  a  nibble. 
I  called  to  him  and  then  stood  up,  ready  to  strike. 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  fish.  He  looked  big  and 
dark.  He  had  his  nose  down,  fooling  with  my  bait. 
When  I  struck  him  he  felt  heavy.  I  put  on  the  click 
of  the  reel,  and  when  the  bonefish  started  off  he 
pulled  the  rod  down  hard,  taking  the  line  fast.  He 
made  one  swirl  on  the  surface  and  then  started  up 
shore.  He  seemed  exceedingly  swift.  I  ran  along 
the  beach  until  presently  the  line  slackened  and  I 
felt  that  the  hook  had  torn  out.  This  was  disap- 
pointment. I  could  not  figure  that  I  had  done  any- 
thing wrong,  but  I  decided  in  the  future  to  use  a 

smaller  and  sharper  hook.    We  went  on  down  the 

112 


BONEFISH 


beach,  seeing  several  bonefish  on  the  way,  and  finally 
we  ran  into  a  big  school  of  them.  They  were  right 
alongshore,  but  when  they  saw  us  we  could  not 
induce  them  to  bite. 

Every  day  we  learn  something.  It  is  necessary 
to  keep  out  of  sight  of  these  fish.  After  they  bite, 
everything  depends  upon  the  skilful  hooking  of  the 
fish.  Probably  it  will  require  a  good  deal  of  skill 
to  land  them  after  you  have  hooked  them,  but  we 
have  had  little  experience  at  that  so  far.  When 
these  fish  are  along  the  shore  they  certainly  are  feed- 
ing, and  presumably  they  are  feeding  on  crabs  of 
some  sort.  Bonefish  appear  to  be  game  worthy  of 
any  fisherman's  best  efforts. 

It  was  a  still,  hot  day,  without  any  clouds.  We 
went  up  the  beach  to  a  point  opposite  an  old  con- 
struction camp.  To-day  when  we  expected  the  tide 
to  be  doing  one  thing  it  was  doing  another.  Ebb 
and  flow  and  flood-tide  have  become  as  difficult  as 
Sanskrit  synonyms  for  me.  My  brother  took  an 
easy  and  comfortable  chair  and  sat  up  the  beach, 
and  I,  like  an  ambitious  fisherman,  laboriously  and 
adventurously  waded  out  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
to  an  old  platform  that  had  been  erected  there.  I 
climbed  upon  this,  and  found  it  a  very  precarious 
place  to  sit.  Come  to  think  about  it,  there  is  some- 
thing very  remarkable  about  the  places  a  fisherman 
will  pick  out  to  sit  down  on.  This  place  was  a  two- 
by-four  plank  full  of  nails,  and  I  cheerfully  availed 
myself  of  it  and,  casting  my  bait  out  as  far  as  I 
could,  I  calmly  sat  down  to  wait  for  a  bonefish.  It 
has  become  a  settled  conviction  in  my  mind  that 

8  113 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


you  have  to  wait  for  bonefish.  But  all  at  once 
I  got  a  hard  bite.  It  quite  excited  me.  I  jerked 
and  pulled  the  bait  away  from  the  fish  and  he 
followed  it  and  took  it  again.  I  saw  this  fish 
and  several  others  in  the  white  patch  of  ground 
where  there  were  not  any  weeds.  But  in  my  excite- 
ment I  did  not  have  out  a  long  enough  line,  and  when 
I  jerked  the  fish  turned  over  and  got  away.  This 
was  all  right,  but  the  next  two  hours  sitting  in  the 
sun  on  that  seat  with  a  nail  sticking  into  me  were 
not  altogether  pleasurable.  When  I  thought  I  had 
endured  it  as  long  as  I  could  I  saw  a  flock  of  seven 
bonefish  swimming  past  me,  and  one  of  them  was 
a  whopper.  The  sight  revived  me.  I  hardly 
breathed  while  that  bunch  of  fish  swam  right  for 
my  bait,  and  for  all  I  could  see  they  did  not  know 
it  was  there.  I  waited  another  long  time.  The  sun 
was  hot — there  was  no  breeze — the  heat  was  re- 
flected from  the  water.  I  could  have  stood  all  this 
well  enough,  but  I  could  not  stand  the  nails.  So  I 
climbed  down  off  my  perch,  having  forgotten  that 
all  this  time  the  tide  had  been  rising.  And  as  I 
could  not  climb  back  I  had  to  get  wet,  to  the  infinite 
amusement  of  my  brother.  After  that  I  fished  from 
the  shore. 

Presently  my  brother  shouted  and  I  looked  up 
to  see  him  pulling  on  a  fish.  There  was  a  big  splash 
in  the  water  and  then  I  saw  his  line  running  out. 
The  fish  was  heading  straight  for  the  framework  on 
which  I  had  been  seated  and  I  knew  if  he  ever  did 
get  there  he  would  break  the  line.  All  of  a  sudden 
I  saw  the  fish  he  had  hooked.  And  he  reached  the 
framework  all  right! 

114 


BONEFISH 


I  had  one  more  strike  this  day,  but  did  not  hook 
the  fish.  It  seems  this  bonefishing  takes  infinite 
patience.  For  all  we  can  tell,  these  fish  come  swim- 
ming along  with  the  rising  tide  close  in  to  shore  and 
they  are  exceedingly  shy  and  wary.  My  brother 
now  has  caught  two  small  bonefish  and  each  of 
them  gave  a  good  strong  bite,  at  once  starting  off 
with  the  bait.  We  had  been  under  the  impression 
that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  feel  the  bonefish 
bite.    It  will  take  work  to  learn  this  game. 

Yesterday  we  went  up  on  the  north  side  of  the 
island  to  the  place  near  the  mangroves  where  we 
had  seen  some  bonefish.  Arriving  there,  we  found 
the  tide  almost  flood,  with  the  water  perfectly  smooth 
and  very  clear  and  about  a  foot  deep  up  at  the 
mangrove  roots.  Here  and  there  at  a  little  distance 
we  could  see  splashes.  We  separated,  and  I  took 
the  outside,  while  R.  C.  took  the  inside  close  to  the 
mangroves.  We  waded  along.  Before  I  had  time 
to  make  a  cast  I  saw  a  three-pound  bonefish  come 
sneaking  along,  and  when  he  saw  me  he  darted 
away  like  an  arrow.  I  made  a  long  cast  and  com- 
posed myself  to  wait.  Presently  a  yell  from  R.  C. 
electrified  me  with  the  hope  that  he  had  hooked 
a  fish.  But  it  turned  out  that  he  had  only  seen 
one.  He  moved  forward  very  cautiously  in  the 
water  and  presently  made  a  cast.  He  then  said 
that  a  big  bonefish  was  right  near  his  hook,  and 
during  the  next  few  minutes  this  fish  circled  his 
bait  twice,  crossing  his  line.  Then  he  counted  out 
loud:  one,  two,  three,  four,  five  bonefish  right  in 
front  of  him,  one  of  which  was  a  whopper.    I  stood 

115 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


up  myself  and  saw  one  over  to  my  right,  of  about 
five  pounds,  sneaking  along  with  his  nose  to  the 
bottom.  When  I  made  a  cast  over  in  his  direction 
he  disappeared  as  suddenly  as  if  he  had  dissolved 
in  the  water.  Looking  out  to  my  left,  I  saw  half 
a  dozen  bonefish  swimming  toward  me,  and  they 
came  quite  close.  When  I  moved  they  vanished. 
Then  I  made  a  cast  over  in  this  direction.  The  bone- 
fish  came  back  and  swam  all  around  my  bait,  appar- 
ently not  noticing  it.  They  were  on  the  feed,  and 
the  reason  they  did  not  take  our  bait  must  have 
been  that  they  saw  us.  We  fished  there  for  an  hour 
without  having  a  sign  of  a  bite,  and  then  we  gave 
it  up. 

To-day  about  flood-tide  I  had  a  little  strike.  I 
jerked  hard,  but  failed  to  see  the  fish,  and  then  when 
I  reeled  in  I  found  he  still  had  hold  of  it.  Then  I 
struck  him,  and  in  one  little  jerk  he  broke  the  leader. 

I  just  had  a  talk  with  a  fellow  who  claims  to 
know  a  good  deal  about  bonefishing.  He  said  he 
had  caught  a  good  many  ranging  up  to  eight  pounds. 
His  claim  was  that  soldier  crabs  were  the  best  bait. 
He  said  he  had  fished  with  professional  boatmen 
who  knew  the  game  thoroughly.  They  would  pole 
the  skiff  alongshore  and  keep  a  sharp  lookout  for 
what  he  called  bonefish  mud.  And  I  assume  that 
he  meant  muddy  places  in  the  water  that  had  been 
stirred  up  by  bonefish.  Of  course,  any  place  where 
these  little  swirls  could  be  seen  was  very  likely  to 
be  a  bonefish  bank.  He  claimed  that  it  was  neces- 
sary to  hold  the  line  near  the  reel  between  the  fore- 
fingers, and  to  feel  for  the  very  slightest  vibration, 

116 


BONEFISH 


Bonefish  have  a  sucker-like  mouth.  They  draw 
the  bait  in,  and  smash  it.  Sometimes,  of  course, 
they  move  away,  drawing  out  the  line,  but  that 
kind  of  a  bite  is  exceptional.  It  is  imperative  to 
strike  the  fish  when  this  vibration  is  felt.  Not  one 
in  five  bonefish  is  hooked. 

We  have  had  two  northers  and  the  water  grew 
so  cold  that  it  drove  the  fish  out.  The  last  two  or 
three  days  have  been  warm  and  to-day  it  was  hot. 
However,  I  did  not  expect  the  bonefish  in  yet,  and 
when  we  went  in  bathing  at  flood-tide  I  was  very 
glad  to  see  two  fish.  I  hurried  out  and  got  my  rod 
and  began  to  try.  Presently  I  had  a  little  strike. 
I  waited  and  it  was  repeated;  then  I  jerked  and  felt 
the  fish.  He  made  a  wave  and  that  was  the  last  I 
knew  of  him. 

Reeling  in,  I  looked  at  my  bait,  to  find  that  it 
had  been  pretty  badly  chewed,  but  I  fastened  it  on 
again  and  made  another  cast.  I  set  down  the  rod. 
Then  I  went  back  after  the  bucket  for  the  rest  of 
the  bait.  Upon  my  return  I  saw  the  line  jerking 
and  I  ran  to  the  rod.  I  saw  a  little  splash,  and  a  big 
white  tail  of  a  bonefish  stick  out  of  the  water.  I 
put  my  thumb  on  the  reel  and  jerked  hard.  In- 
stantly I  felt  the  fish,  heavy  and  powerful.  He  made 
a  surge  and  then  ran  straight  out.  The  line  burned 
my  thumb  so  I  could  not  hold  it.  I  put  on  the  click 
and  the  fish  made  a  swifter,  harder  run  for  at  least 
a  hundred  yards,  and  he  tore  the  hook  out. 

This  makes  a  number  of  fish  that  have  gotten 
away  from  me  in  this  manner.  It  is  exasperating 
and  difficult  to  explain.  I  have  to  use  a  pretty 
heavy  sinker  in  order  to  cast  the  bait  out.    I  have 

117 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


arranged  this  sinker,  which  has  a  hole  through  it, 
so  that  the  line  will  run  freely.  This  seems  to  work 
all  right  on  the  bite,  but  I  am  afraid  it  does  not  work 
after  the  fish  is  hooked.  That  sinker  drags  on  the 
bottom.  This  is  the  best  rigging  that  I  can  plan  at 
the  present  stage  of  the  game.  I  have  an  idea  now 
that  a  bonefish  should  be  hooked  hard  and  then 
very  carefully  handled. 

I  fished  off  the  beach  awhile  in  front  of  the  cabin. 
We  used  both  kinds  of  crabs,  soldier  and  hermit. 
I  fished  two  hours  and  a  half,  from  the  late  rising 
tide  to  the  first  of  the  ebb,  without  a  sign  or  sight 
of  a  fish.  R.  C.  finally  got  tired  and  set  his  rod  and 
went  in  bathing.  Then  it  happened.  I  heard  his 
reel  singing  and  saw  his  rod  nodding;  then  I  made 
a  dash  for  it.  The  fish  was  running  straight  out, 
heavy  and  fast,  and  he  broke  the  line. 

This  may  have  been  caused  by  the  heavy  sinker 
catching  in  the  weeds.  We  must  do  more  planning 
to  get  a  suitable  rig  for  these  bonefish. 

Day  before  yesterday  R.  C.  and  I  went  up  to 
the  Long  Key  point,  and  rowed  in  on  the  mangrove 
shoal  where  once  before  I  saw  so  many  bonefish. 
The  tide  was  about  one-quarter  in,  and  there  was 
a  foot  of  water  all  over  the  flats.  We  anchored  at 
the  outer  edge  and  began  to  fish.  We  had  made 
elaborate  preparations  in  the  way  of  tackle,  bait, 
canoe,  etc.,  and  it  really  would  have  been  remarkable 
if  we  had  had  any  luck.  After  a  little  while  I  dis- 
tinctly felt  something  at  my  hook,  and  upon  jerking 
I  had  one  splendid  surge  out  of  a  good,  heavy  bone- 
fish.   That  was  all  that  happened  in  that  place. 

118 


BONEFISH 


It  was  near  flood-tide  when  we  went  back.  I 
stood  up  and  kept  a  keen  watch  for  little  muddy 
places  in  the  water,  also  bonefish.  At  last  I  saw 
several  fish,  and  there  we  anchored.  I  fished  on  one 
side  of  the  boat,  and  R.  C.  on  the  other.  On  two 
different  occasions,  feeling  a  nibble  on  his  line,  he 
jerked,  all  to  no  avail.  The  third  time  he  yelled 
as  he  struck,  and  I  turned  in  time  to  see  the  white 
thresh  of  a  bonefish.  He  made  a  quick  dash  off  to 
the  side  and  then  came  in  close  to  the  boat,  swim- 
ming around  with  short  runs  two  or  three  times, 
and  then,  apparently  tired,  he  came  close.  I  made 
ready  to  lift  him  into  the  boat,  when,  lo  and  behold ! 
he  made  a  wonderful  run  of  fully  three  hundred  feet 
before  R.  C.  could  stop  him.  Finally  he  was  led  to 
the  boat,  and  turned  out  to  be  a  fish  of  three  and  a 
half  pounds.  It  simply  made  R.  C.  and  me  gasp 
to  speak  of  what  a  really  large  bonefish  might  be 
able  to  do.  There  is  something  irresistible  about 
the  pursuit  of  these  fish,  and  perhaps  this  is  it.  We 
changed  places,  and  as  a  last  try  anchored  in  deeper 
water,  fishing  as  before.  This  time  I  had  a  distinct 
tug  at  my  line  and  I  hooked  a  fish.  He  wiggled  and 
jerked  and  threshed  around  so  that  I  told  R.  C.  that 
it  was  not  a  bonefish,  but  R.  C.  contended  it  was. 
Anyway,  he  came  toward  the  boat  rather  easily 
until  we  saw  him  and  he  saw  us,  and  then  he  made 
a  dash  similar  to  that  of  R.  C.'s  fish  and  he  tore 
out  the  hook.  This  was  the  extent  of  our  adventure 
that  day,  and  we  were  very  much  pleased. 

Next  morning  we  started  out  with  a  high  northeast 
trade-wind  blowing.  Nothing  could  dampen  our  ardor. 

It  was  blowing  so  hard  up  at  No.  2  viaduct  that 

119 


TALES  OF  PISHES 


we  decided  to  stay  inside.  There  is  a  big  flat  there 
cut  up  by  channels,  and  it  is  said  to  be  a  fine  ground 
for  bonefish.  The  tide  was  right  and  the  water 
was  clear,  but  even  in  the  lee  of  the  bank  the  wind 
blew  pretty  hard.  We  anchored  in  about  three  feet 
of  water  and  began  to  fish. 

After  a  while  we  moved.  The  water  was  about 
a  foot  deep,  and  the  bottom  clean  white  marl,  with 
little  patches  of  vegetation.  Crabs  and  crab-holes 
were  numerous.  I  saw  a  small  shark  and  a  couple 
of  rays.  When  we  got  to  the  middle  of  a  big  flat 
I  saw  the  big,  white,  glistening  tails  of  bonefish 
sticking  out  of  the  water.  We  dropped  anchor  and, 
much  excited,  were  about  to  make  casts,  when  R.  C. 
lost  his  hat.  He  swore.  We  had  to  pull  up  anchor 
and  go  get  the  hat.  Unfortunately  this  scared 
the  fish.  Also  it  presaged  a  rather  hard-luck  after- 
noon. In  fishing,  as  in  many  other  things,  if  the 
beginning  is  tragedy  all  will  be  tragedy,  growing 
worse  all  the  time.  We  moved  around  up  above 
where  I  had  seen  these  bonefish,  and  there  we 
dropped  anchor.  No  sooner  had  we  gotten  our  baits 
overboard  than  we  began  to  see  bonefish  tails  off 
at  quite  some  distance.  The  thing  to  do,  of  course, 
was  to  sit  right  there  and  be  patient,  but  this  was 
almost  impossible  for  us.  We  moved  again  and 
again,  but  we  did  not  get  any  nearer  to  the  fish. 
Finally  I  determined  that  we  would  stick  in  one 
place.  This  we  did,  and  the  bonefish  began  to  come 
around.  When  they  would  swim  close  to  the  boat 
and  see  us  they  would  give  a  tremendous  surge  and 
disappear,  as  if  by  magic.  But  they  always  left  a 
muddy  place  in  the  water.    The  speed  of  these  fish 

no 


BONEFISH 


is  beyond  belief.  I  could  not  cast  where  I  wanted 
to;  I  tried  again  and  again.  When  I  did  get  my 
bait  off  at  a  reasonable  distance,  I  could  feel  crabs 
nibbling  at  it.  These  pests  robbed  us  of  many  a 
good  bait.  One  of  them  cut  my  line  right  in  two. 
They  seemed  to  be  very  plentiful,  and  that  must 
be  why  the  bonefish  were  plentiful,  too.  R.  C.  kept 
losing  bait  after  bait,  which  he  claimed  was  the  work 
of  crabs,  but  I  rather  believed  it  to  be  the  work  of 
bonefish.  It  was  too  windy  for  us  to  tell  anything 
about  the  pressure  of  the  line.  It  had  to  be  quite 
a  strong  tug  to  be  felt  at  all.  Presently  I  felt  one, 
and  instead  of  striking  at  once  I  waited  to  see  what 
would  happen.  After  a  while  I  reeled  in  to  find  my 
bait  gone.  Then  I  was  consoled  by  the  proof  that 
a  bonefish  had  taken  the  bait  off  for  me.  Another 
time  three  bonefish  came  along  for  my  bait  and  stuck 
their  tails  up  out  of  the  water,  and  were  evidently 
nosing  around  it,  but  I  felt  absolutely  nothing  on 
the  line.    When  I  reeled  in  the  bait  was  gone. 

We  kept  up  this  sort  of  thing  for  two  hours.  I 
knew  that  we  were  doing  it  wrong.  R.  C.  said  bad 
conditions,  but  I  claimed  that  these  were  only  partly 
responsible  for  our  failure.  I  knew  that  we  moved 
about  too  much,  that  we  did  not  cast  far  enough 
and  wait  long  enough,  and  that  by  all  means  we 
should  not  have  cracked  bait  on  the  bottom  of  the 
boat,  and  particularly  we  did  not  know  when  we 
had  a  bite!  But  it  is  one  thing  to  be  sure  of  a  fact 
and  another  to  be  >able  to  practise  it.  At  last  we 
gave  up  in  despair,  and  upon  paddling  back  toward 
the  launch  we  saw  a  school  of  bonefish  with  their  tails 
in  the  air.    We  followed  them  around  for  a  while, 

121 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


apparently  very  much  to  their  amusement.  At  sunset 
we  got  back  to  the  launch  and  started  for  camp. 

This  was  a  long,  hard  afternoon's  work  for  noth- 
ing. However,  it  is  my  idea  that  experience  is  never 
too  dearly  bought.  I  will  never  do  some  things 
again,  and  the  harder  these  fish  are  to  catch,  the 
more  time  and  effort  it  takes — the  more  intelligence 
and  cunning — all  the  more  will  I  appreciate  success 
if  it  ever  does  come.  It  is  in  the  attainment  of  diffi- 
cult tasks  that  we  earn  our  reward.  There  are  sev- 
eral old  bonefish  experts  here  in  camp,  and  they 
laughed  when  I  related  some  of  our  experiences. 
Bonefishermen  are  loath  to  tell  anything  about  their 
methods.  This  must  be  a  growth  of  the  difficult 
game.  I  had  an  expert  bonefisherman  tell  me  that 
when  he  was  surprised  while  fishing  on  one  of  the 
shoals,  he  always  dropped  his  rod  and  pretended 
to  be  digging  for  shells.  And  it  is  a  fact  that  the 
bonefish  guides  at  Metacumbe  did  not  let  any  one 
get  a  line  on  their  methods.  They  will  avoid  a  bone- 
fishing-ground  while  others  are  there,  and  if  they 
are  surprised  there  ahead  of  others,  they  will  pull 
up  anchor  and  go  away.  May  I  be  preserved  from 
any  such  personal  selfishness  and  reticence  as  this! 
One  of  these  bonefish  experts  at  the  camp  told  me 
that  in  all  his  years  of  experience  he  had  never  gotten 
a  bonefish  bite.  If  you  feel  a  tug,  it  is  when  the 
bonefish  is  ejecting  the  hook.  Then  it  is  too  late. 
The  bonefish  noses  around  the  bait  and  sucks  it 
in  without  any  apparent  movement  of  the  line. 
And  that  can  be  detected  first  by  a  little  sagging  of 
the  line  or  by  a  little  strain  upon  it.    That  is  the 

time  to  strike.    He  also  said  that  he  always  broke 

122 


BONEFISH 


his  soldier  crabs  on  a  piece  of  lead  to  prevent  the 
jar  from  frightening  the  fish. 

Doctor  B.  tells  a  couple  of  interesting  experiences 
with  bonefish.  On  one  occasion  he  was  fishing  near 
another  boat  in  which  was  a  friend.  The  water 
was  very  clear  and  still,  and  he  could  see  his  friend's 
bait  lying  upon  the  sand.  An  enormous  bonefish 
swam  up  and  took  the  bait,  and  Doctor  B.  was  so 
thrilled  and  excited  that  he  could  not  yell.  When 
the  man  hooked  the  fish  it  shot  off  in  a  straight- 
away rush,  raising  a  ridge  upon  the  water.  It  ran  the 
length  of  the  line  and  freed  itself.  Later  Doctor  B.'s 
friend  showed  the  hook,  that  had  been  straightened 
out.  They  measured  the  line  and  found  it  to  be  five 
hundred  and  fifty-five  feet.  The  bonefish  had  gone 
the  length  of  this  in  one  run,  and  they  estimated 
that  he  would  have  weighed  not  less  than  fifteen 
pounds. 

On  another  occasion  Dr.  B  saw  a  heavy  bone- 
fish hooked.  It  ran  straight  off  shore,  and  turning, 
ran  in  with  such  speed  that  it  came  shooting  out 
upon  dry  land  and  was  easily  captured.  These  two 
instances  are  cases  in  point  of  the  incredible  speed 
and  strength  of  this  strange  fish. 

R.  C.  had  a  splendid  fight  with  a  bonefish  to-day. 
The  wind  was  blowing  hard  and  the  canoe  was  not 
easy  to  fish  out  of.  We  had  great  difficulty  in  telling 
when  we  did  have  a  bite.  I  had  one  that  I  know  of. 
When  R.  C.  hooked  his  fish  it  sheered  off  between  the 
canoe  and  the  beach  and  ran  up-shore  quite  a  long 
way.  Then  it  headed  out  to  sea  and  made  a  long 
run,  and  then  circled.  It  made  short,  quick  surges, 
each  time  jerking  R.  C.'s  rod  down  and  pulling  the 

123 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


reel  handle  out  of  his  fingers.  He  had  to  put  on  a 
glove.  We  were  both  excited  and  thrilled  with  the 
gameness  of  this  fish.  It  circled  the  canoe  three 
times,  and  tired  out  very  slowly.  When  he  got  it 
close  the  very  thing  happened  that  I  feared.  It 
darted  under  the  anchor  rope  and  we  lost  it.  This 
battle  lasted  about  fifteen  minutes,  and  afforded  us  an 
actual  instance  of  the  wonderful  qualities  of  this  fish. 

Yesterday  R.  C.  hooked  a  bonefish  that  made  a 
tremendous  rush  straight  offshore,  and  never  stopped 
until  he  had  pulled  out  the  hook.  This  must  have 
been  a  very  heavy  and  powerful  fish. 

I  had  my  taste  of  the  same  dose  to-day.  I  felt  a 
tiny  little  tug  upon  my  line  that  electrified  me  and 
I  jerked  as  hard  as  I  dared.  I  realized  that  I  had 
hooked  some  kind  of  fish,  but,  as  it  was  wiggling  and 
did  not  feel  heavy,  I  concluded  that  I  had  hooked 
one  of  those  pesky  blowfish.  But  all  of  a  sudden  my 
line  cut  through  the  water  and  fairly  whistled.  I 
wound  in  the  slack  and  then  felt  a  heavy  fish.  He 
made  a  short  plunge  and  then  a  longer  one,  straight 
out,  making  my  reel  scream.  I  was  afraid  to  thumb 
the  line,  so  I  let  him  go.  With  these  jerky  plunges 
he  ran  about  three  hundred  feet.  Then  I  felt  my 
line  get  fast,  and,  handing  my  rod  to  R.  C,  I  slipped 
off  my  shoes  and  went  overboard.  I  waded  out, 
winding  as  I  went,  to  find  that  the  bonefish  had 
fouled  the  line  on  a  sponge  on  the  bottom,  and  he 
had  broken  free  just  above  the  hook. 

Yesterday  the  fag  end  of  the  northeast  gale  still 
held  on,  but  we  decided  to  try  for  bonefish.  Low 
tide  at  two  o'clock. 

124 


BONEFISH 


I  waded  up-shore  with  the  canoe,  and  R.  C.  walked. 
It  was  a  hard  job  to  face  the  wind  and  waves  and 
pull  the  canoe.    It  made  me  tired  and  wet. 

When  we  got  above  the  old  camp  the  tide  had 
started  in.  We  saw  bonefish  tails  standing  up  out 
of  the  water.  Hurriedly  baiting  our  hooks,  we  waded 
to  get  ahead  of  them.  But  we  could  not  catch  them 
wading,  so  went  back  to  the  canoe  and  paddled  swiftly- 
ahead,  anchored,  and  got  out  to  wade  once  more. 

R.  C.  was  above  me.  We  saw  the  big  tail  of  one 
bonefish  and  both  of  us  waded  to  get  ahead  of  him. 
At  last  I  made  a  cast,  but  did  not  see  him  any  more. 
The  wind  was  across  my  line,  making  a  big  curve 
in  it,  and  I  was  afraid  I  could  not  tell  a  bite  if  I 
had  one.  Was  about  to  reel  in  when  I  felt  the  faint 
tug.  I  swept  my  rod  up  and  back,  hard  as  I  dared. 
The  line  came  tight,  I  felt  a  heavy  weight;  a  quiver, 
and  then  my  rod  was  pulled  down.  I  had  hooked 
him.  The  thrill  was  remarkable.  He  took  a  short 
dash,  then  turned.  I  thought  I  had  lost  him.  But 
he  was  running  in.  Frantically  I  wound  the  reel, 
but  could  not  get  in  the  slack.  I  saw  my  line  coming, 
heard  it  hiss  in  the  water,  then  made  out  the  dark 
shape  of  a  bonefish.  He  ran  right  at  me — almost  hit 
my  feet.  When  he  saw  me  he  darted  off  with  in- 
credible speed,  making  my  reel  scream.  I  feared  the 
strain  on  the  line,  and  I  plunged  through  the  water 
as  fast  as  I  could  after  him.  He  ran  four  hundred 
feet  in  that  dash,  and  I  ran  fifty.  Not  often  have  I 
of  late  years  tingled  and  thrilled  and  panted  with 
such  excitement.  It  was  great.  It  brought  back 
the  days  of  boyhood.    When  he  stopped  that  run 

I  was  tired  and  thoroughly  wet.    He  sheered  off  as 

125 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


I  waded  and  wound  in.  I  got  him  back  near  me. 
He  shot  off  in  a  shoal  place  of  white  mud  where  I 
saw  him  plainly,  and  he  scared  a  school  of  bonefish 
that  split  and  ran  every  way.  My  fish  took  to 
making  short  circles;  I  could  not  keep  a  tight  line. 
Lost!  I  wound  in  fast,  felt  him  again,  then  abso- 
lutely lost  feel  of  him  or  sight  of  him.  Lost  again! 
My  sensations  were  remarkable,  considering  it  was 
only  a  fish  of  arm's-length  at  the  end  of  the  line. 
But  these  bonefish  rouse  an  angler  as  no  other  fish 
can.  All  at  once  I  felt  the  line  come  tight.  He  was 
still  on,  now  running  inshore. 

The  water  was  about  a  foot  deep.  I  saw  the 
bulge,  or  narrow  wave,  he  made.  He  ran  out  a 
hundred  feet,  and  had  me  dashing  after  him  again. 
I  could  not  trust  that  light  line  at  the  speed  he  swam, 
so  I  ran  to  release  the  strain.  He  led  me  inshore, 
then  up-shore,  and  out  toward  sea  again,  all  the  time 
fighting  with  a  couple  of  hundred  feet  of  line  out. 
Occasionally  he  would  make  a  solid,  thumping 
splash.  He  worked  offshore  some  two  hundred 
yards,  where  he  led  me  in  water  half  to  my  hips. 
I  had  to  try  to  stop  him  here,  and  with  fear  and 
trepidation  I  thumbed  the  reel.  The  first  pressure 
brought  a  savage  rush,  but  it  was  short.  He  turned, 
and  I  wound  him  back  and  waded  inshore. 

From  that  moment  I  had  him  beaten,  although  I 
was  afraid  of  his  short  thumps  as  he  headed  away 
and  tugged.  Finally  I  had  him  within  twenty  feet 
circling  around  me,  tired  and  loggy,  yet  still  strong 
enough  to  require  careful  handling. 

He  looked  short  and  heavy,  pale  checked  green 
and  silver;  and  his  staring  black  eye,  set  forward  in 

126 


BONEFISH 


his  pointed  white  nose,  could  be  plainly  seen.  This 
fish  made  a  rare  picture  for  an  angler. 

So  I  led  him  to  the  canoe  and,  ascertaining  that 
I  had  him  well  hooked,  I  lifted  him  in. 

Never  have  I  seen  so  beautiful  a  fish.  A  golden 
trout,  a  white  sea-bass,  a  dolphin,  all  are  beautiful, 
but  not  so  exquisite  as  this  bonefish.  He  seemed 
all  bars  of  dazzling  silver.  His  tail  had  a  blue  mar- 
gin and  streaks  of  lilac.  His  lower  (anal)  fins  were 
blazing  with  opal  fire,  and  the  pectoral  fins  were 
crystal  white.  His  eye  was  a  dead,  piercing  black, 
staring  and  deep.  We  estimated  his  weight.  I  held 
for  six  pounds,  but  R.  C.  shook  his  head.  He  did 
not  believe  that.  But  we  agreed  on  the  magnificent 
fight  he  had  made. 

Then  we  waded  up-shore  farther  and  began  to 
fish.  In  just  five  minutes  I  had  the  same  kind  of 
strike,  slight,  almost  imperceptible,  vibrating,  and  I 
hooked  a  fish  exactly  as  I  had  the  first  one.  He 
was  light  of  weight,  but  swift  as  a  flash.  I  played 
him  from  where  I  stood.  This  time  I  essayed  with  all 
skill  to  keep  a  taut  line.  It  was  impossible.  Now  I 
felt  his  weight  and  again  only  a  slack  line.  This  fish, 
too,  ran  right  to  my  feet,  then  in  a  boiling  splash 
sheered  away.  But  he  could  not  go  far.  I  reeled 
him  back  and  led  him  to  the  canoe.  He  was  small, 
and  the  smallness  of  him  was  such  a  surprise  in  con- 
trast to  what  his  fight  had  led  me  to  imagine  he  was. 

R.  C.  had  one  strike  and  broke  his  line  on  the  jerk. 
We  had  to  give  up  on  account  of  sunset  at  hand. 

There  was  another  hard  thunder-storm  last  night. 
The  last  few  days  have  begun  the  vernal  equinox. 

127 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


It  rained  torrents  all  night  and  stopped  at  dawn. 
The  wind  was  northeast  and  cool.  Cloudy  over- 
head, with  purple  horizon  all  around — a  forbidding 
day.  But  we  decided  to  go  fishing,  anyhow.  We 
had  new,  delicate  three-six  tackles  to  try.  About 
seven  the  wind  died  away.  There  was  a  dead  calm, 
and  the  sun  tried  to  show.  Then  another  breeze 
came  out  of  the  east. 

We  went  up  on  the  inside  after  bait,  and  had  the 
luck  to  find  some.  Crossing  the  island,  we  came 
out  at  the  old  construction  camp  where  we  had  left 
the  canoe.  By  this  time  a  stiff  breeze  was  blowing 
and  the  tide  was  rising  fast.  We  had  our  troubles 
paddling  and  poling  up  to  the  grove  of  cocoanuts. 
Opposite  this  we  anchored  and  began  to  fish. 

Conditions  were  not  favorable.  The  water  was 
choppy  and  roily,  the  canoe  bobbed  a  good  deal, 
the  anchors  dragged,  and  we  did  not  see  any  fish. 
All  the  same,  we  persevered.  At  length  I  had  a 
bite,  but  pulled  too  late.  We  tried  again  for  a  while, 
only  to  be  disappointed.    Then  we  moved. 

We  had  to  put  the  stern  anchor  down  first  and 
let  it  drag  till  it  held  and  the  canoe  drifted  around 
away  from  the  wind,  then  we  dropped  the  bow  an- 
chor. After  a  time  I  had  a  faint  feeling  at  the  end 
of  my  line — an  indescribable  feeling.  I  jerked  and 
hooked  a  bonefish.  He  did  not  feel  heavy.  He  ran 
off,  and  the  wind  bagged  my  line  and  the  waves  also 
helped  to  pull  out  the  hook. 

Following  that  we  changed  places  several  times, 
in  one  of  which  R.  C.  had  a  strike,  but  failed  to  hook 
the  fish.  Just  opposite  the  old  wreck  on  the  shore 
I  had  another  fish  take  hold,  and,  upon  hooking  him, 

128 


BONEFISH 


had  precisely  the  same  thing  happen  as  in  the  first 
instance.  I  think  the  bag  of  my  line,  which  I  could 
not  avoid,  allowed  the  lead  to  sag  down  and  drag 
upon  the  bottom.  Of  course  when  it  caught  the 
bonefish  pulled  free. 

In  some  places  we  found  the  water  clearer  than  in 
others.  Flood-tide  had  long  come  when  we  an- 
chored opposite  the  old  camp.  R.  C.  cast  out  upon 
a  brown  patch  of  weeds  where  we  have  caught  some 
fine  fish,  and  I  cast  below.  Perhaps  in  five  minutes 
or  less  R.  C.  swept  up  his  rod.  I  saw  it  bend  for- 
ward, down  toward  the  water.  He  had  hooked  a 
heavy  fish.  The  line  hissed  away  to  the  right,  and 
almost  at  once  picked  up  a  good-sized  piece  of  sea- 
weed. 

"It's  a  big  fish!"  I  exclaimed,  excitedly.  "Look 
at  him  go!  .  .  .  That  seaweed  will  make  you  lose 
him.    Let  me  wade  out  and  pull  it  off?" 

"No!  Let's  take  a  chance.  .  .  .  Too  late,  anyhow! 
Gee!  He's  going!  .  .  .  He's  got  two  hundred  yards 
out!" 

Two-thirds  of  the  line  was  off  the  reel,  and  the 
piece  of  seaweed  seemed  to  be  a  drag  on  the  fish. 
He  slowed  up.  The  line  was  tight,  the  rod  bent. 
Suddenly  the  tip  sprang  back.  We  had  seen  that 
often  before. 

"Gone!"  said  R.  C.,  dejectedly. 

But  I  was  not  so  sure  of  that,  although  I  was 
hopeless.  R.  C.  wound  in,  finding  the  line  came 
slowly,  as  if  weighted.  I  watched  closely.  We 
thought  that  was  on  account  of  the  seaweed.  But 
suddenly  the  reel  began  to  screech. 

"I've  got  him  yet!"  yelled  R.  C,  with  joy. 

9  129 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


I  was  overjoyed,  too,  but  I  contained  myself,  for 
I  expected  dire  results  from  that  run. 

Zee!  Zee!  Zee!  went  the  reel,  and  the  rod 
nodded  in  time. 

"We  must  get  rid  of  that  seaweed  or  lose  him. 
.  .  .  Pull  up  your  anchor  with  one  hand.  .  .  .  Careful 
now." 

He  did  so,  and  quickly  I  got  mine  up.  What 
ticklish  business! 

"Keep  a  tight  line!"  I  cautioned,  as  I  backed  the 
canoe  hard  with  all  my  power.  It  was  not  easy  to 
go  backward  and  keep  head  on  to  the  wind.  The 
waves  broke  over  the  end  of  the  canoe,  splashing  me 
in  the  face  so  I  could  taste  and  smell  the  salt.  I 
made  half  a  dozen  shoves  with  the  paddle.  Then, 
nearing  the  piece  of  seaweed,  I  dropped  my  anchor. 

In  a  flash  I  got  that  dangerous  piece  of  seaweed 
off  R.  C.'s  line. 

"Good  work!  .  .  .  Say,  but  that  helps.  .  .  .  We'd 
never  have  gotten  him,"  said  R.  C,  beaming.  I 
saw  him  look  then  as  he  used  to  in  our  sunfish,  bent- 
pin  days. 

"We've  not  got  him  yet,"  I  replied,  grimly. 
"Handle  him  as  easily  as  you  can." 

Then  began  a  fight.  The  bonefish  changed  his 
swift,  long  runs,  and  took  to  slow  sweeps  to  and 
fro,  and  whenever  he  was  drawn  a  few  yards  closer 
he  would  give  a  solid  jerk  and  get  that  much  line 
back.  There  was  much  danger  from  other  pieces 
of  floating  weed.  R.  C.  maneuvered  his  line  to  miss 
them.  All  the  time  the  bonefish  was  pulling  doggedly. 
I  had  little  hope  we  might  capture  him.  At  the  end 
of  fifteen  minutes  he  was  still  a  hundred  yards  from 

130 


BONEFISH 


the  canoe  and  neither  of  us  had  seen  him.  Our 
excitement  grew  tenser  every  moment.  The  fish 
sheered  to  and  fro,  and  would  not  come  into  shallower 
water.  He  would  not  budge.  He  took  one  long 
run  straight  up  the  shore,  in  line  with  us,  and  then 
circled  out.  This  alarmed  me,  but  he  did  not  in- 
crease his  lead.  He  came  slowly  around,  yard  by 
yard.  R.  C.  reeled  carefully,  not  hard  enough  to 
antagonize  him,  and  after  what  seemed  a  long  time 
got  him  within  a  hundred  feet,  and  I  had  a  glimpse 
of  green  and  silver.  Then  off  he  ran  again.  How 
unbelievably  swift!  He  had  been  close — then  al- 
most the  same  instant  he  was  far  off. 

"I  saw  him!  On  a  wave!"  yelled  R.  C.  "That's 
no  bonefish!  What  can  he  be,  anyhow?  I  believe 
I've  got  a  barracuda!" 

I  looked  and  looked,  but  I  could  not  see  him. 

"No  matter  what  you  think  you  saw,  that  fish 
is  a  bonefish,"  I  declared,  positively.  "The  runs 
he  made!  I  saw  silver  and  green !  Careful  now.  I 
know  he's  a  bonefish.    And  he  must  be  big." 

"Maybe  it's  only  the  wind  and  waves  that  make 
him  feel  so  strong,"  replied  R.  C. 

"No!  You  can't  fool  me!  Play  him  for  a  big 
one.  He's  been  on  twenty-three  minutes  now. 
Stand  up — I'll  steady  the  canoe — and  watch  for 
that  sudden  rush  when  he  sees  the  canoe.  The 
finish  is  in  sight." 

It  was  an  indication  of  a  tiring  fish  that  he  made 
his  first  circle  of  the  canoe,  but  too  far  out  for  us  to 
see  him.  This  circling  a  boat  is  a  remarkable  feat- 
ure, and  I  think  it  comes  from  the  habit  of  a  bone- 
fish of  pulling  broadside.    I  cautioned  R.  C.  to 

131 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


avoid  the  seaweed  and  to  lead  him  a  little  more, 
but  to  be  infinitely  careful  not  to  apply  too  much 
strain.  He  circled  us  again,  a  few  yards  closer. 
The  third  circle  he  did  not  gain  a  foot.  Then  he  was 
on  his  fourth  lap  around  the  canoe,  drawing  closer. 
On  his  fifth  lap  clear  round  us  he  came  near  as  fifty 
feet.  I  could  not  resist  standing  up  to  see.  I  got 
a  glimpse  of  him  and  he  looked  long.  But  I  did  not 
say  anything  to  R.  C.  We  had  both  hooked  too 
many  big  bonefish  that  got  away  immediately. 
This  was  another  affair. 

He  circled  us  the  sixth  time.  Six  times!  Then 
he  came  rather  close.  On  this  occasion  he  saw  the 
canoe.  He  surged  and  sped  out  so  swiftly  that  I 
was  simply  paralyzed.  R.  C.  yelled  something  that 
had  a  note  of  admiration  of  sheer  glory  in  the  spirit 
of  that  fish. 

"Here's  where  he  leaves  us!"  I  echoed. 

But,  as  luck  would  have  it,  he  stopped  that  run 
short  of  two  hundred  yards;  and  turned  broadside  to 
circle  slowly  back,  allowing  R.  C.  to  get  in  line.  He 
swam  slower  this  time,  and  did  not  make  the  heavy 
tugs.  He  came  easily.,  weaving  to  and  fro.  R.  C. 
got  him  to  within  twenty-five  feet  of  the  boat,  yet 
still  could  not  see  him.  It  was  my  job  to  think  quick 
and  sit  still  with  ready  hands  on  the  anchor  rope. 
He  began  to  plunge,  taking  a  little  line  each  time. 
Then  suddenly  I  saw  R.  C.'s  line  coming  toward  us. 
I  lhiew  that  would  happen. 

"Now !    Look  out !    Reel  in  fast \"  I  cried,  tensely. 

As  I  leaned  over  to  heave  up  the  anchor,  I  saw 
the  bonefish  flashing  nearer.  At  that  instant  of 
thrilling  excitement  and  suspense  I  could  not  trust 

m 


BONEFISH 


my  eyesight.  There  he  was,  swimming  heavily,  and 
he  looked  three  feet  long,  thick  and  dark  and  heavy. 
I  got  the  anchor  up  just  as  he  passed  under  the 
canoe.  Maybe  I  did  not  revel  in  pride  of  my 
quickness  of  thought  and  action! 

"Oh!    He's  gone  under  the  rope!"  gasped  R.  C. 

"No!"  I  yelled,  sharply.  "Let  your  line  run  out! 
Put  your  tip  down!    We'll  drift  over  your  line." 

R.  C.  was  dominated  to  do  so,  and  presently  the 
canoe  drifted  over  where  the  line  was  stretched. 
That  second  ticklish  moment  passed.  It  had  scared 
me.    But  I  could  not  refrain  from  one  sally. 

"I  got  the  anchor  up.  What  did  you  think  I'd 
do?" 

R.  C.  passed  by  my  remark.  This  was  serious 
business  for  him.  He  looked  quite  earnest  and 
pale. 

"Say!  did  you  see  him?"  he  ejaculated,  looking 
at  me. 

"Wish  I  hadn't,"  I  replied. 

We  were  drifting  inshore,  which  was  well,  pro- 
vided we  did  not  drift  too  hard  to  suit  the  bonefish. 
He  swam  along  in  plain  sight,  and  he  seemed  so 
big  that  I  would  not  have  gazed  any  longer  if  I 
could  have  helped  it. 

I  kept  the  canoe  headed  in,  and  we  were  not  long 
coming  to  shallow  water.  Here  the  bonefish  made 
a  final  dash  for  freedom,  but  it  was  short  and  feeble, 
compared  with  his  first  runs.  He  got  about  twenty 
feet  away,  then  sheered,  showing  his  broad,  silver 
side.  R.  C.  wound  him  in  close,  and  an  instant 
later  the  bow  of  the  canoe  grated  on  shore. 

"Now  what?"  asked  R.  C.  as  I  stepped  out  into 

133 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


the  water.  "Won't  it  be  risky  to  lift  him  into  the 
canoe t 

"Lift  nothing!  I  have  this  all  figured  out.  Lead 
him  along.5' 

R.  C.  stepped  out  upon  the  beach  while  I  was  in 
the  water.  The  bonefish  lay  on  his  side,  a  blaze 
of  silver.  I  took  hold  of  the  line  very  gently  and 
led  the  fish  a  little  closer  in.  The  water  was  about 
six  inches  deep.  There  were  waves  beating  in — a 
miniature  surf.  And  I  calculated  on  the  receding  of 
a  wave.  Then  with  one  quick  pull  I  slid  our  beauti- 
ful quarry  up  on  the  coral  sand.  The  instant  he  was 
out  of  the  water  the  leader  snapped.  I  was  ready 
for  this,  too.  But  at  that  it  was  an  awful  instant! 
As  the  wave  came  back,  almost  deep  enough  to 
float  the  bonefish,  I  scooped  him  up. 

"He's  ours!"  I  said,  consulting  my  watch.  "Thirty- 
three  minutes!  I  give  you  my  word  that  fight  was 
comparable  to  ones  I've  had  with  a  Pacific  sword- 
fish." 

"Look  at  him!"  R.  C.  burst  out.  "Look  at  him! 
When  the  leader  broke  I  thought  he  was  lost.  I'm 
sick  yet.    Didn't  you  almost  bungle  that?" 

"Not  a  chance,  R.  C,"  I  replied.  "Had  that  all 
figured.  I  never  put  any  strain  on  your  line  until 
the  wave  went  back.  Then  I  slid  him  out,  the  leader 
broke,  and  I  scooped  him  up." 

R.  C.  stood  gazing  down  at  the  glistening,  opal- 
spotted  fish.  What  a  contrast  he  presented  to  any 
other  kind  of  a  fish!  How  many  beautiful  species 
have  we  seen  lying  on  sand  or  moss  or  ferns,  just 
come  out  of  the  water!  But  I  could  remember  no 
other  so  rare  as  this  bonefish.    The  exceeding  diffi- 

134 


BONEFISH 


culty  of  the  capture  of  this,  our  first  really  large 
bonefish,  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  our  admira- 
tion and  pride.  For  the  hard  work  of  any  achieve- 
ment is  what  makes  it  worth  while.  But  this  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  exquisite,  indescribable  beauty 
of  the  bonefish.  He  was  long,  thick,  heavy,  and 
round,  with  speed  and  power  in  every  line;  a  sharp 
white  nose  and  huge  black  eyes.  The  body  of  him 
was  live,  quivering  silver,  molten  silver  in  the  sun- 
light, crossed  and  barred  with  blazing  stripes.  The 
opal  hues  came  out  upon  the  anal  fin,  and  the  broad 
tail  curled  up,  showing  lavender  tints  on  a  back- 
ground of  brilliant  blue.  He  weighed  eight  pounds. 
Symbolic  of  the  mysterious  life  and  beauty  in  the 
ocean !  Wonderful  and  prolific  as  nature  is  on  land, 
she  is  infinitely  more  so  in  the  sea.  By  the  sun  and 
the  sea  we  live;  and  I  shall  never  tire  of  seeking  and 
studying  the  manifold  life  of  the  deep. 


VIII 


SOME  RARE  FISH 

IT  is  very  strange  that  the  longer  a  man  fishes  the 
more  there  seems  to  be  to  learn.  In  my  case  this 
is  one  of  the  secrets  of  the  fascination  of  the  game. 
Always  there  will  be  greater  fish  in  the  ocean  than 
I  have  ever  caught. 

Five  or  six  years  ago  I  heard  the  name  "waahoo" 
mentioned  at  Long  Key.  The  boatmen  were  using 
it  in  a  way  to  make  one  see  that  they  did  not  be- 
lieve there  was  such  a  fish  as  a  waahoo.  The  old 
conch  fishermen  had  never  heard  the  name.  For 
that  matter,  neither  had  I. 

Later  I  heard  the  particulars  of  a  hard  and  spec- 
tacular fight  Judge  Shields  had  had  with  a  strange 
fish  which  the  Smithsonian  declared  to  be  a  waahoo. 
The  name  waahoo  appears  to  be  more  familiarly 
associated  with  a  shrub  called  burning-bush,  also  a 
Pacific  coast  berry,  and  again  a  small  tree  of  the 
South  called  winged  elm.  When  this  name  is  men- 
tioned to  a  fisherman  he  is  apt  to  think  only  fun  is 
intended.    To  be  sure,  I  thought  so. 

In  February,  1915,  I  met  Judge  Shields  at  Long 
Key,  and,  remembering  his  capture  of  this  strange 
fish  some  years  previous,  I  questioned  him.    He  was 

130 


SOME  RARE  FISH 


singularly  enthusiastic  about  the  waahoo,  and  what 
he  said  excited  my  curiosity.  Either  the  genial 
judge  was  obsessed  or  else  this  waahoo  was  a  great 
fish.  I  was  inclined  to  believe  both,  and  then  I 
forgot  all  about  the  matter. 

This  year  at  Long  Key  I  was  trolling  for  sailfish 
out  in  the  Gulf  Stream,  a  mile  or  so  southeast  of 
Tennessee  Buoy.  It  was  a  fine  day  for  fishing,  there 
being  a  slight  breeze  and  a  ripple  on  the  water. 
My  boatman,  Captain  Sam,  and  I  kept  a  sharp 
watch  on  all  sides  for  sailfish.  I  was  using  light 
tackle,  and  of  course  trolling,  with  the  reel  free  run- 
ning, except  for  my  thumb. 

Suddenly  I  had  a  bewildering  swift  and  hard 
strike.  What  a  wonder  that  I  kept  the  reel  from 
over-running!  I  certainly  can  testify  to  the  burn 
on  my  thumb. 

Sam  yelled  "Sailfish!"  and  stooped  for  the  lever, 
awaiting  my  order  to  throw  out  the  clutch. 

Then  I  yelled:  "Stop  the  boat,  Sam!  .  •  .  It's  no 
sailfish!" 

That  strike  took  six  hundred  feet  of  line  quicker 
than  any  other  I  had  ever  experienced.  I  simply 
did  not  dare  to  throw  on  the  drag.  But  the  in- 
stant the  speed  slackened  I  did  throw  it  on,  and 
jerked  to  hook  the  fish.  I  felt  no  weight.  The  line 
went  slack. 

"No  good!"  I  called,  and  began  to  wind  in. 

At  that  instant  a  fish  savagely  broke  water  abreast 
of  the  boat,  about  fifty  yards  out.  He  looked  long, 
black,  sharp-nosed.  Sam  saw  him,  too.  Then  I 
felt  a  heavy  pull  on  my  rod  and  the  line  began  to 
slip  out.    I  jerked  and  jerked,  and  felt  that  I  had 

137 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


a  fish  hooked.  The  line  appeared  strained  and  slow, 
which  I  knew  to  be  caused  by  a  long  and  wide  bag 
in  it. 

"Sam,"  I  yelled,  "the  fish  that  jumped  is  on  my 
line!" 

"No,"  replied  Sam. 

It  did  seem  incredible.  Sam  figured  that  no  fish 
could  run  astern  for  two  hundred  yards  and  then 
quick  as  a  flash  break  water  abreast  of  us.  But  I 
knew  it  was  true.  Then  the  line  slackened  just  as  it 
had  before.    I  began  to  wind  up  swiftly. 

"He's  gone,"  I  said. 

Scarcely  had  I  said  that  when  a  smashing  break 
in  the  water  on  the  other  side  of  the  boat  alarmed 
and  further  excited  me.  I  did  not  see  the  fish.  But 
I  jumped  up  and  bent  over  the  stern  to  shove  my 
rod  deep  into  the  water  back  of  the  propeller.  I 
did  this  despite  the  certainty  that  the  fish  had 
broken  loose.  It  was  a  wise  move,  for  the  rod  was 
nearly  pulled  out  of  my  hands.  I  lifted  it,  bent 
double,  and  began  to  wind  furiously.  So  intent  was 
I  on  the  job  of  getting  up  the  slack  line  that  I  scarcely 
looked  up  from  the  reel. 

"Look  at  him  yump!"  yelled  Sam. 

I  looked,  but  not  quickly  enough. 

"Over  here!    Look  at  him  yump!"  went  on  Sam. 

That  fish  made  me  seem  like  an  amateur.  I 
could  not  do  a  thing  with  him.  The  drag  was  light, 
and  when  I  reeled  in  some  line  the  fish  got  most  of 
it  back  again.  Every  second  I  expected  him  to  get 
free  for  sure.  It  was  a  miracle  he  did  not  shake  the 
hook,  as  he  certainly  had  a  loose  rein  most  all  the 
time.    The  fact  was  he  had  such  speed  that  I  was 

138 


SOME  RARE  FISH 


unable  to  keep  a  strain  upon  him.  I  had  no  idea 
what  kind  of  a  fish  it  was.  And  Sam  likewise 
was  nonplussed. 

I  was  not  sure  the  fish  tired  quickly,  for  I  was 
so  excited  I  had  no  thought  of  time,  but  it  did  not 
seem  very  long  before  I  had  him  within  fifty  yards, 
sweeping  in  wide  half-circles  back  of  the  boat. 
Occasionally  I  saw  a  broad,  bright-green  flash. 
When  I  was  sure  he  was  slowing  up  I  put  on  the 
other  drag  and  drew  him  closer.  Then  in  the  clear 
water  we  saw  a  strange,  wild,  graceful  fish,  the  like 
of  which  we  had  never  beheld.  He  was  long,  slen- 
der, yet  singularly  round  and  muscular.  His  color 
appeared  to  be  blue,  green,  silver  crossed  by  bars. 
His  tail  was  big  like  that  of  a  tuna,  and  his  head 
sharper,  more  wolfish  than  a  barracuda.  He  had  a 
long,  low,  straight  dorsal  fin.  We  watched  him 
swimming  slowly  to  and  fro  beside  the  boat,  and 
we  speculated  upon  his  species.  But  all  I  could 
decide  was  that  I  had  a  rare  specimen  for  my 
collection. 

Sam  was  just  as  averse  to  the  use  of  the  gaff  as 
I  was.  I  played  the  fish  out  completely  before  Sam 
grasped  the  leader,  pulled  him  close,  lifted  him  in, 
and  laid  him  down — a  glistening,  quivering,  wonder- 
ful fish  nearly  six  feet  long. 

He  was  black  opal  blue;  iridescent  silver  under- 
neath; pale  blue  dorsal;  dark-blue  fins  and  copper- 
bronze  tail,  with  bright  bars  down  his  body. 

I  took  this  thirty-six  pound  fish  to  be  a  sea-roe,  a 
game  fish  lately  noticed  on  the  Atlantic  seaboard. 
But  I  was  wrong.  One  old  conch  fisherman  who 
had  been  around  the  Keys  for  forty  years  had  never 

139 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


seen  such  a  fish.  Then  Mr.  Schutt  came  and  con- 
gratulated me  upon  landing  a  waahoo. 

The  catching  of  this  specimen  interested  me  to 
inquire  when  I  could,  and  find  out  for  myself,  more 
about  this  rare  fish. 

Natives  round  Key  West  sometimes  take  it  in 
nets  and  with  the  grains,  and  they  call  it  "springer." 
It  is  well  known  in  the  West  Indies,  where  it  bears 
the  name  "queenfish."  After  studying  this  waahoo 
there  were  boatmen  and  fishermen  at  Long  Key  who 
believed  they  had  seen  schools  of  them.  Mr. 
Schutt  had  observed  schools  of  them  on  the  reef, 
low  down  near  the  coral — fish  that  would  run  from 
forty  to  one  hundred  pounds.  It  made  me  thrill 
just  to  think  of  hooking  a  waahoo  weighing  any- 
where near  a  hundred  pounds.  Mr.  Shannon  testi- 
fied that  he  had  once  observed  a  school  of  waahoo 
leaping  in  the  Gulf  Stream — all  very  large  fish. 
And  once,  on  a  clear,  still  day,  I  drifted  over  a 
bunch  of  big,  sharp-nosed,  game-looking  fish  that 
I  am  sure  belonged  to  this  species. 

The  waahoo  seldom,  almost  never,  is  hooked  by 
a  fisherman.  This  fact  makes  me  curious.  All  fish 
have  to  eat,  and  at  least  two  waahoo  have  been 
caught.  Why  not  more?  I  do  not  believe  that  it 
is  just  a  new  fish.  I  see  Palm  Beach  notices  printed 
to  the  effect  that  sailfish  were  never  heard  of  there 
before  the  Russo-Japanese  War,  and  that  the  ex- 
plosions of  floating  mines  drove  them  from  their 
old  haunts.  I  do  not  take  stock  in  such  theory  as 
that.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Holder  observed  the  sail- 
fish  (Histiophorus)  in  the  Gulf  Stream  off  the  Keys 
many  years  ago.    Likewise  the  waahoo  must  always 

140 


SOME  RARE  FISH 


have  been  there,  absent  perhaps  in  varying  seasons. 
It  is  fascinating  to  ponder  over  tackle  and  bait  and 
cunning  calculated  to  take  this  rare  denizen  of  the 
Gulf  Stream. 

During  half  a  dozen  sojourns  at  Long  Key  I  had 
heard  of  two  or  three  dolphin  being  caught  by  lucky 
anglers  who  were  trolling  for  anything  that  would 
bite.  But  until  1916  I  never  saw  a  dolphin.  Cer- 
tainly I  never  hoped  to  take  one  of  these  rare  and 
beautiful  deep-sea  fish.  Never  would  have  the  luck. 
But  in  February  I  took  two,  and  now  I  am  forbidden 
the  peculiar  pleasure  of  disclaiming  my  fisherman's 
luck. 

Dolphin  seems  a  singularly  attractive  name.  It 
always  made  me  think  of  the  deep  blue  sea,  of  old 
tars,  and  tall-sparred,  white-sailed  brigs.  It  is  the 
name  of  a  fish  beloved  of  all  sailors.  I  do  not 
know  why,  but  I  suspect  that  it  is  because  the 
dolphin  haunts  ships  and  is  an  omen  of  good  luck, 
and  probably  the  most  exquisitely  colored  fish  in 
the  ocean. 

One  day,  two  miles  out  in  the  Gulf  Stream,  I 
got  a  peculiar  strike,  quite  unlike  any  I  had  ever 
felt.  A  fisherman  grows  to  be  a  specialist  in  strikes. 
This  one  was  quick,  energetic,  jerky,  yet  strong. 
And  it  was  a  hungry  strike.  A  fish  that  is  hungry 
can  almost  always  be  hooked.  I  let  this  one  run 
a  little  and  then  hooked  him.  He  felt  light,  but 
savage.  He  took  line  in  short,  zigzag  rushes.  I 
fancied  it  was  a  bonita,  but  Sam  shook  his  head. 
With  about  a  hundred  yards  of  line  out,  the  fish 
leaped.    He  was  golden.    He  had  a  huge,  blunt, 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


bow-shaped  head  and  a  narrow  tail.    The  distance 
was  pretty  far,  and  I  had  no  certainty  to  go  by,  yet 
I  yelled: 
"Dolphin!" 

Sam  was  not  so  sure,  but  he  looked  mighty  hope- 
ful. The  fish  sounded  and  ran  in  on  me,  then 
darted  here  and  there,  then  began  to  leap  and 
thresh  upon  the  surface.  He  was  hard  to  lead — a 
very  strong  fish  for  his  light  weight.  I  never 
handled  a  fish  more  carefully.  He  came  up  on  a 
low  swell,  heading  toward  us,  and  he  cut  the  water 
for  fifty  feet,  with  only  his  dorsal,  a  gleam  of  gold, 
showing  in  the  sunlight. 

Next  he  jumped  five  times,  and  I  could  hear  the 
wrestling  sound  he  made  when  he  shook  himself. 
I  had  no  idea  what  he  might  do  next,  and  if  he  had 
not  been  securely  hooked  would  have  gotten  off. 
I  tried  hard  to  keep  the  line  taut  and  was  not  al- 
ways successful.  Like  the  waahoo,  he  performed 
tricks  new  to  me.  One  was  an  awkward  diving  leap 
that  somehow  jerked  the  line  in  a  way  to  alarm 
me.  When  he  quit  his  tumbling  and  rushing  I  led 
him  close  to  the  boat. 

This  has  always  been  to  me  one  of  the  rewards 
of  fishing.  It  quite  outweighs  that  doubtful  moment 
for  me  when  the  fish  lies  in  the  boat  or  helpless  on 
the  moss.  Then  I  am  always  sorry,  and  more  often 
than  not  let  the  fish  go  alive. 

My  first  sight  of  a  dolphin  near  at  hand  was  one 
to  remember.  The  fish  flashed  gold — deep  rich  gold 
— with  little  flecks  of  blue  and  white.  Then  the 
very  next  flash  there  were  greens  and  yellows — 
changing,  colorful,  brilliant  bars.    In  that  back- 

142 


SOME  RARE  FISH 


ground  of  dark,  clear,  blue  Gulf  Stream  water  this 
dolphin  was  radiant,  golden,  exquisitely  beautiful. 
It  was  a  shame  to  lift  him  out  of  the  water.    But — 

The  appearance  of  the  dolphin  when  just  out  of 
the  water  beggars  description.  Very  few  anglers 
in  the  world  have  ever  had  this  experience.  Not 
many  anglers,  perhaps,  care  for  the  beauty  of  a  fish. 
But  I  do.  And  for  the  sake  of  those  who  feel  the 
same  way  I  wish  I  could  paint  him.  But  that  seems 
impossible.  For  even  while  I  gazed  the  fish  changed 
color.  He  should  have  been  called  the  chameleon 
of  the  ocean.  He  looked  a  quivering,  shimmering, 
changeful  creature,  the  color  of  golden-rod.  He  was 
the  personification  of  beautiful  color  alive.  The  fact 
that  he  was  dying  made  the  changing  hues.  It  gave 
me  a  pang — that  I  should  be  the  cause  of  the  death 
of  so  beautiful  a  thing. 

If  I  caught  his  appearance  for  one  fleeting  instant 
here  it  is :  Vivid  green-gold,  spotted  in  brilliant  blue, 
and  each  blue  spot  was  a  circle  inclosing  white. 
The  long  dorsal  extending  from  nose  to  tail  seemed 
black  and  purple  near  the  head,  shading  toward  the 
tail  to  rich  olive  green  with  splashes  of  blue.  Just 
below  the  dorsal,  on  the  background  of  gold,  was  a 
line  of  black  dots.  The  fins  were  pearly  silver  be- 
neath, and  dark  green  above.  All  the  upper  body 
was  gold  shading  to  silver,  and  this  silver  held  ex- 
quisite turquoise-blue  spots  surrounded  with  white 
rings,  in  strange  contrast  to  those  ringed  dots  above. 
There  was  even  a  suggestion  of  pink  glints.  And 
the  eyes  were  a  deep  purple  with  gold  iris. 

The  beauty  of  the  dolphin  resembled  the  mystery 
of  the  Gulf  Stream — too  illusive  for  the  eye  of  man. 

143 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


More  than  once  some  benighted  angler  had  men- 
tioned bonefish  to  me.  These  individuals  always 
appeared  to  be  quiet,  retiring  fishermen  who  hesi- 
tated to  enlarge  upon  what  was  manifestly  close  to 
their  hearts.  I  had  never  paid  any  attention  to 
them.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  bonefish,  anyway? 
The  name  itself  did  not  appeal  to  my  euphonious 
ear. 

But  on  this  1916  trip  some  faint  glimmering  must 
have  penetrated  the  density  of  my  cranium.  I  had 
always  prided  myself  upon  my  conviction  that  I  did 
not  know  it  all,  but,  just  the  same,  I  had  looked 
down  from  my  lofty  height  of  tuna  and  swordfish 
rather  to  despise  little  salt-water  fish  that  could  not 
pull  me  out  of  the  boat.  The  waahoo  and  the  dol- 
phin had  opened  my  eyes.  When  some  mild,  quiet, 
soft-voiced  gentleman  said  bonefish  to  me  again  I 
listened.  Not  only  did  I  listen,  I  grew  interested. 
Then  I  saw  a  couple  of  bonefish.  They  shone  like 
silver,  were  singularly  graceful  in  build,  felt  heavy 
as  lead,  and  looked  game  all  over.  I  made  the  mental 
observation  that  the  man  who  had  named  them 
bonefish  should  have  had  half  of  that  name  applied 
to  his  head.' 

After  that  I  was  more  interested  in  bonefish.  I 
never  failed  to  ask  questions.  But  bonefishermen 
were  scarce  and  as  reticent  as  scarce.  To  sum  up  all 
of  my  inquiries,  I  learned  or  heard  a  lot  that  left  me 
completely  bewildered,  so  that  I  had  no  idea  whether 
a  bonefish  was  a  joke  or  the  grandest  fish  that  swims. 
I  deducted  from  the  amazing  information  that  if  a 
fisherman  sat  all  day  in  the  blazing  sun  and  had 
the  genius  to  discover  when  he  had  a  bite  he  was 

144 


AT  LONG  KEY,  THE  LONELY  CORAL  SHORE  WHERE  THE  SUN  SHINES 
WHITE   ALL   DAY   AND   THE   STARS   SHINE   WHITE   ALL  NIGHT 


SOME  RARE  FISH 


learning.  No  one  ever  caught  bonefish  without  days 
and  days  of  learning.  Then  there  were  incidents 
calculated  to  disturb  the  peace  of  a  contemplative 
angler  like  myself. 

One  man  with  heavy  tackle  yanked  some  bone- 
fish  out  of  the  tide  right  in  front  of  my  cabin,  quite 
as  I  used  to  haul  out  suckers.  Other  men  tried  it 
for  days  without  success,  though  it  appeared  bone- 
fish  were  passing  every  tide.  Then  there  was  a 
loquacious  boatman  named  Jimmy,  who,  when  he 
had  spare  time,  was  always  fishing  for  bonefish. 
He  would  tell  the  most  remarkable  tales  about  these 
fish.  So  finally  I  drifted  to  that  fatal  pass  where  I 
decided  I  wanted  to  catch  bonefish.  I  imagined  it 
would  be  easy  for  me.  So  did  Captain  Sam.  Alas ! 
the  vanity  of  man! 

Forthwith  Captain  Sam  and  I  started  out  to 
catch  soldier-crabs  for  bait.  The  directions  we  got 
from  conch  fishermen  and  others  led  us  to  assume 
that  it  would  be  an  easy  matter  to  find  crabs.  It 
was  not!  We  had  to  go  poking  round  mangrove 
roots  until  we  learned  how  to  catch  the  soldiers. 
If  this  had  not  been  fun  for  me  it  would  have  been 
hard  work.  But  ever  since  I  was  a  little  tad  I  have 
loved  to  chase  things  in  the  water.  And  upon  this 
occasion  it  was  with  great  satisfaction  that  I  caught 
more  bait  than  Captain  Sam.  Sam  is  something  of  a 
naturalist  and  he  was  always  spending  time  over  a 
curious  bug  or  shell  or  object  he  found.  Eventually 
we  collected  a  bucketful  of  soldier-crabs. 

Next  day,  about  the  last  of  the  ebb-tide,  we  tied 
a  skiff  astern  and  went  up  the  Key  to  a  cove 
where  there  were  wide  flats.  While  working  our 
10  145 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


way  inshore  over  the  shoals  we  hit  bottom  several 
times  and  finally  went  aground.  This  did  not  worry 
us,  for  we  believed  the  rising  tide  would  float  us. 

Then  we  got  in  the  skiff  and  rowed  toward  the 
flats.  I  was  rather  concerned  to  see  that  apparently 
the  tide  was  just  about  as  high  along  this  shore  as 
it  ever  got.  Sam  shook  his  head.  The  tides  were 
strange  around  the  Keys.  It  will  be  high  on  the 
Gulf  side  and  low  on  the  Atlantic  side,  and  some- 
times it  will  run  one  way  through  the  channels  for 
thirty-six  hours.  But  we  forgot  this  as  soon  as  we 
reached  the  bonefish  shoals. 

Sam  took  an  oar  and  slowly  poled  inshore,  while 
I  stood  up  on  a  seat  to  watch  for  fish.  The  water 
was  from  six  to  eighteen  inches  deep  and  very  clear 
and  still.  The  bottom  appeared  to  be  a  soft  mud, 
gray,  almost  white  in  color,  with  patches  of  dark 
grass  here  and  there.  It  was  really  marl,  which  is 
dead  and  decayed  coral. 

Scarcely  had  we  gotten  over  the  edge  of  this  shoal 
when  we  began  to  see  things — big  blue  crabs,  the 
kind  that  can  pinch  and  that  play  havoc  with  the 
fishermen's  nets,  and  impudent  little  gray  crabs, 
and  needle-fish,  and  small  chocolate-colored  sharks 
— nurse  sharks,  Sam  called  them — and  barracuda 
from  one  foot  to  five  feet  in  length,  and  whip-rays 
and  sting-rays.  It  was  exceedingly  interesting  and 
surprising  to  see  all  these  in  such  shallow  water. 
And  they  were  all  tame. 

Here  and  there  we  saw  little  boils  of  the  water, 
and  then  a  muddy  patch  where  some  fish  had  stirred 
the  marl.  Sam  and  I  concluded  these  were  made  by 
bonefish.    Still,  we  could  not  be  sure.    I  can  see  a 

146 


SOME  RARE  FISH 


fish  a  long  way  in  the  water  and  I  surely  was  alert. 
But  some  time  elapsed  and  we  had  poled  to  within 
a  few  rods  of  the  mangroves  before  I  really  caught 
sight  of  our  coveted  quarry.  Then  I  saw  five  bone- 
fish,  two  of  them  large,  between  the  boat  and  the 
mangroves.  They  were  motionless.  Somehow  the 
sight  of  them  was  thrilling.  They  looked  wary, 
cunning,  game,  and  reminded  me  of  gray  wolves 
I  had  seen  on  the  desert.  Suddenly  they  vanished. 
It  was  incredible  the  way  they  disappeared.  When 
we  got  up  to  the  place  where  they  had  been  there 
were  the  little  swirls  in  the  roiled  water. 

Then  Sam  sighted  two  more  bonefish  that  flashed 
away  too  swiftly  for  me  to  see.  We  stuck  an  oar 
down  in  the  mud  and  anchored  the  boat.  It  seemed 
absolutely  silly  to  fish  in  water  a  foot  deep.  But 
I  meant  to  try  it.  Putting  a  crab  on  my  hook,  I 
cast  off  ten  or  a  dozen  yards,  and  composed  myself 
to  rest  and  watch. 

Certainly  I  expected  no  results.  But  it  was  at- 
tractive there.  The  wide  flat  stretched  away,  bor- 
dered by  the  rich,  dark  mangroves.  Cranes  and 
pelicans  were  fishing  off  the  shoals,  and  outside  rip- 
pled the  green  channel,  and  beyond  that  the  dark- 
blue  sea.  The  sun  shone  hot.  There  was  scarcely 
any  perceptible  breeze.  All  this  would  have  been 
enjoyable  and  fruitful  if  there  had  not  been  a  fish 
within  a  mile. 

Almost  directly  I  felt  a  very  faint  vibration  of  my 
line.  I  waited,  expectantly,  thinking  that  I  might 
be  about  to  have  a  bite.  But  the  line  slackened  and 
nothing  happened. 

There  were  splashes  all  around  us  and  waves  and 

147 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


ripples  here  and  there,  and  occasionally  a  sounding 
thump.  We  grew  more  alert  and  interested.  Sam 
saw  a  bonefish  right  near  the  boat.  He  pointed, 
and  the  fish  was  gone.  After  that  we  sat  very  still, 
I,  of  course,  expecting  a  bite  every  moment.  Pres- 
ently I  saw  a  bonefish  not  six  feet  from  the  boat. 
Where  he  came  from  was  a  mystery,  but  he  ap- 
peared like  magic,  and  suddenly,  just  as  magically, 
he  vanished. 

"Funny  fish,"  observed  Sam,  thoughtfully.  Some- 
thing had  begun  to  dawn  upon  Sam,  as  it  had  upon 
me. 

No  very  long  time  elapsed  before  we  had  seen  a 
dozen  bonefish,  any  one  of  which  I  could  have  reached 
with  my  rod.  But  not  a  bite!  I  reeled  in  to  find 
my  bait  gone. 

"That  bait  was  eaten  off  by  crabs,"  I  said  to 
Sam,  as  I  put  on  another. 

Right  away  after  my  cast  I  felt,  rather  than  saw, 
that  slight  vibration  of  my  line.  I  waited  as  before, 
and  just  as  before  the  line  almost  imperceptibly 
slackened  and  nothing  happened. 

Presently  I  did  see  a  blue  crab  deliberately  cut 
my  line.  We  had  to  move  the  boat,  pick  up  the 
lost  piece  of  line,  and  knot  it  to  the  other.  Then  I 
watched  a  blue  crab  tear  off  my  bait.  But  I  failed 
to  feel  or  see  that  faint  vibration  of  my  line.  We 
moved  the  boat  again,  and  again  my  line  was  cut. 
These  blue  crabs  were  a  nuisance.  Sam  moved  the 
boat  again.  We  worked  up  the  flat  nearer  where  the 
little  mangroves,  scarce  a  foot  high,  lifted  a  few  leaves 
out  of  the  water.  Whenever  I  stood  up  I  saw 
bonefish,  and  everywhere  we  could  hear  them. 

148 


SOME  RARE  FISH 


Once  more  we  composed  ourselves  to  watch  and 
await  developments. 

In  the  succeeding  hour  I  had  many  of  the  peculiar 
vibrations  of  my  line,  and,  strange  to  see,  every  time 
I  reeled  in,  part  of  my  bait  or  all  of  it  was  gone. 
Still  I  fished  on  patiently  for  a  bonefish  bite. 

Meanwhile  the  sun  lost  its  heat,  slowly  slanted  to 
the  horizon  of  mangroves,  and  turned  red.  It  was 
about  the  hour  of  sunset  and  it  turned  out  to  be 
a  beautiful  and  memorable  one.  Not  a  breath  of 
air  stirred.  There  was  no  sound  except  the  screech 
of  a  gull  and  the  distant  splashes  of  wading  birds. 
I  had  not  before  experienced  silence  on  or  near  salt 
water.  The  whole  experience  was  new.  We  re- 
marked that  the  tide  had  not  seemed  to  rise  any 
higher.  Everywhere  were  little  swells,  little  waves, 
little  wakes,  all  made  by  bonefish.  The  sun  sank 
red  and  gold,  and  all  the  wide  flat  seemed  on  fire, 
with  little  mangroves  standing  clear  and  dark  against 
the  ruddy  glow.  And  about  this  time  the  strangest 
thing  happened.  It  might  have  been  going  on  before, 
but  Sam  and  I  had  not  seen  it.  All  around  us  were 
bonefish  tails  lifted  out  of  the  water.  They  glistened 
like  silver.  When  a  bonefish  feeds  his  head  is  down 
and  his  tail  is  up,  and,  the  water  being  shallow,  the 
upper  fluke  of  his  tail  stands  out.  If  I  saw  one  I 
saw  a  thousand.  It  was  particularly  easy  to  see 
them  in  the  glassy  water  toward  the  sunset. 

A  school  of  feeding  bonefish  came  toward  us.  I 
counted  eleven  tails  out  of  the  water.  They  were 
around  my  bait.  Now  or  never,  I  thought,  waiting 
frantically !  But  they  went  on  feeding — passed  over 
my  line — and  came  so  near  the  boat  that  I  could 

149 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


plainly  see  the  gray  shadow  shapes,  the  long,  sharp 
noses,  the  dark,  staring  eyes.  I  reeled  in  to  find  my 
bait  gone,  as  usual.    It  was  exasperating. 

We  had  to  give  up  then,  as  darkness  was  not  far 
off.  Sam  was  worried  about  the  boat.  He  rowed 
while  I  stood  up.  Going  back,  I  saw  bonefish  in  twos 
and  fours  and  droves.  We  passed  school  after 
school.  They  had  just  come  in  from  the  sea,  for 
they  were  headed  up  the  flat.  I  saw  many  ten- 
pound  fish,  but  I  did  not  know  enough  about  bone- 
fish  then  to  appreciate  what  I  saw.  However,  I  did 
appreciate  their  keen  sight  and  wariness  and  won- 
derful speed  and  incredible  power.  Some  of  the 
big  surges  made  me  speculate  what  a  heavy  bone- 
fish  might  do  to  light  tackle.  Sam  and  I  were  dis- 
appointed at  our  luck,  somewhat  uncertain  whether 
it  was  caused  by  destructive  work  of  crabs  or  the 
wrong  kind  of  bait  or  both.  It  scarcely  occurred 
to  us  to  inquire  into  our  ignorance. 

We  found  the  boat  hard  and  fast  in  the  mud. 
Sam  rowed  me  ashore.  I  walked  back  to  camp,  and 
he  stayed  all  night,  and  all  the  next  day,  waiting 
for  the  tide  to  float  the  boat. 

After  that  on  several  days  we  went  up  to  the 
flat  to  fish  for  bonefish.  But  we  could  not  hit  the 
right  tide  or  the  fish  were  not  there.  At  any  rate, 
we  did  not  see  any  or  get  any  bites. 

Then  I  began  to  fish  for  bonefish  in  front  of  my 
cottage.  Whenever  I  would  stick  my  rod  in  the 
sand  and  go  in  out  of  the  hot  sun  a  bonefish  would 
take  my  bait  and  start  off  to  sea.  Before  I  could 
get  back  he  would  break  something. 

This  happened  several  times  before  I  became  so 

150 


SOME  RARE  FISH 


aroused  that  I  determined  to  catch  one  of  these 
fish  or  die.  I  fished  and  fished.  I  went  to  sleep  in 
a  camp-chair  and  absolutely  ruined  my  reputation 
as  an  ardent  fisherman.  One  afternoon,  just  after 
I  had  made  a  cast,  I  felt  the  same  old  strange  vibra- 
tion of  my  line.  I  was  not  proof  against  it  and  I 
jerked.  Lo!  I  hooked  a  fish  that  made  a  savage 
rush,  pulled  my  bass-rod  out  of  shape,  and  took  all 
my  line  before  I  could  stop  him.  Then  he  swept 
from  side  to  side.  I  reeled  him  in,  only  to  have 
him  run  out  again  and  again  and  yet  again.  I 
knew  I  had  a  heavy  fish.  I  expected  him  to  break 
my  line.  I  handled  him  gingerly.  Imagine  my 
amaze  to  beach  a  little  fish  that  weighed  scarcely 
more  than  two  pounds!  But  it  was  a  bonefish — a 
glistening  mother-of-pearl  bonefish.  Somehow  the 
obsession  of  these  bonefishermen  began  to  be  less 
puzzling  to  me.  Sam  saw  me  catch  this  bonefish, 
and  he  was  as  amazed  as  I  was  at  the  gameness  and 
speed  and  strength  of  so  small  a  fish. 

Next  day  a  bonefisherman  of  years'  experience 
answered  a  few  questions  I  put  to  him.  No,  he 
never  fished  for  anything  except  bonefish.  They 
were  the  hardest  fish  in  the  sea  to  make  bite,  the 
hardest  to  land  after  they  were  hooked.  Yes,  that 
very,  very  slight  vibration  of  the  line — that  strange 
feeling  rather  than  movement — was  the  instant 
of  their  quick  bite.  An  instant  before  or  an  instant 
after  would  be  fatal. 

It  dawned  upon  me  then  that  on  my  first  day  I 
must  have  had  dozens  of  bonefish  bites,  but  I  did 
not  know  it!  I  was  humiliated — I  was  taken  down 
from  my  lofty  perch — I  was  furious.    I  thanked  the 

151 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


gentleman  for  his  enlightenment  and  went  away  in 
search  of  Sam.  I  told  Sam,  and  he  laughed — 
laughed  at  me  and  at  himself.  After  all,  it  was  a 
joke.  And  I  had  to  laugh  too.  It  is  good  for  a 
fisherman  to  have  the  conceit  taken  out  of  him — if 
anything  can  accomplish  that.  Then  Sam  and  I 
got  our  heads  together.  What  we  planned  and 
what  we  did  must  make  another  story. 


IX 


SWORDFISH 

From  records  of  the  New  York  Bureau  of  Fisheries, 
by  G.  B.  Goode 

THE  swordfish,  Xiphias  gladius,  ranges  along  the 
Atlantic  coast  of  America  from  Jamaica  (lati- 
tude 18°  N.),  Cuba,  and  the  Bermudas,  to  Cape 
Breton  (latitude  47°  N.).  It  has  not  been  seen  at 
Greenland,  Iceland,  or  Spitzbergen,  but  occurs,  ac- 
cording to  Collett,  at  the  North  Cape  (latitude  71°). 
It  is  abundant  along  the  coasts  of  western  Europe, 
entering  the  Baltic  and  the  Mediterranean.  I  can 
find  no  record  of  the  species  on  the  west  coast  of 
Africa  south  of  Cape  Verde,  though  Lutken,  who 
may  have  access  to  facts  unknown  to  me,  states 
that  they  occur  clear  down  to  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  South  Atlantic  in  mid-ocean,  to  the  west 
coast  of  South  America  and  to  southern  California 
(latitude  34°),  New  Zealand,  and  in  the  Indian 
Ocean  off  Mauritius. 

The  names  of  the  swordfish  all  have  reference  to 
that  prominent  feature,  the  prolonged  snout.  The 
"swordfish"  of  our  own  tongue,  the  "zwardfis"  of 
the  Hollander,  the  Italian  "sofia"  and  "pesce- 
spada,"  the  Spanish  "espada"  and  "espadarte," 

153 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


varied  by  "pez  do  spada"  in  Cuba,  and  the  French 
"espadon,"  "dard,"  and  "epee  de  mer,"  are  simply 
variations  of  one  theme,  repetitions  of  the  "gladius" 
of  ancient  Italy  and  "xiphius,"  the  name  by  which 
Aristotle,  the  father  of  zoology,  called  the  same  fish 
twenty-three  hundred  years  ago.  The  French  "em- 
pereur"  and  the  "imperador"  and  the  "ocean  king- 
fish"  of  the  Spanish  and  French  West  Indies,  carry 
out  the  same  idea,  for  the  Roman  Emperor  was  al- 
ways represented  holding  a  drawn  sword  in  his 
hand.  The  Portuguese  names  are  "aguhao,"  mean- 
ing "needle,"  or  "needle-fish." 

This  species  has  been  particularly  fortunate  in 
escaping  the  numerous  redescriptions  to  which  al- 
most all  widely  distributed  forms  have  been  sub- 
jected. By  the  writers  of  antiquity  it  was  spoken 
of  under  its  Aristotelian  name,  and  in  the  tenth 
edition  of  his  Systema  Nature?,  at  the  very  inception 
of  binomial  nomenclative,  Sinnaeus  called  it  Xiphias 
gladius.  By  this  name  it  has  been  known  ever 
since,  and  only  one  additional  name  is  included  in 
its  synonym,  Xiphias  rondeletic  of  Leach. 

The  swordfish  has  been  so  long  and  so  well  known 
that  its  right  to  its  peculiar  name  has  seldom  been 
infringed  upon.  The  various  species  of  Tetrapturus 
have  sometimes  shared  its  title,  and  this  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at,  since  they  closely  resemble  Xiphias 
gladius,  and  the  appellative  has  frequently  been  ap- 
plied to  the  family  Xiphiidce — the  swordfish — which 
includes  them  all. 

The  name  "bill-fish,"  usually  applied  to  our 
Tetrapturus  albidus,  a  fish  of  the  swordfish  family, 
often  taken  on  our  coast,  must  be  pronounced  ob- 

154 


SWORDFISH 


jectionable,  since  it  is  in  many  districts  used  for 
various  species  of  Belonidse,  the  garfishes  or  green- 
bones  (Belone  truncata  and  others),  which  are  mem- 
bers of  the  same  faunas.  Spearfish  is  a  much  better 
name. 

The  "sailfish,"  Hishiophorus  americanus,  is  called 
by  sailors  in  the  South  the  "boohoo"  or  "woohoo." 
This  is  evidently  a  corrupted  form  of  "guebum," 
a  name,  apparently  of  Indian  origin,  given  to  the 
same  fish  in  Brazil.  It  is  possible  that  Tetrapturus 
is  also  called  "boohoo,"  since  the  two  genera  are 
not  sufficiently  unlike  to  impress  sailors  with  their 
differences.  Blecker  states  that  in  Sumatra  the 
Malays  call  the  related  species,  H.  gladius,  by  the 
name  "Joohoo"  (Juhu),  a  curious  coincidence. 
The  names  may  have  been  carried  from  the  Malay 
Archipelago  to  South  America,  or  vice  versa,  by 
mariners. 

In  Cuba  the  spearfish  are  called  "aguja"  and 
"aguja  de  palada";  the  sailfish,  "aguja  prieta"  or 
"aguja  valadora";  Tetrapturus  albidus  especially 
known  as  the  "aguja  blanca,"  T.  albidus  as  the 
"aguja  de  castro." 

In  the  West  Indies  and  Florida  the  scabbard- 
fish  or  silvery  hairy-tail,  Trichiurus  lepturus,  a  form 
allied  to  the  Xiphias,  though  not  resembling  it 
closely  in  external  appearance,  is  often  called  "sword- 
fish."  The  body  of  this  fish  is  shaped  like  the  blade 
of  a  saber,  and  its  skin  has  a  bright,  metallic  luster 
like  that  of  polished  steel,  hence  the  name. 

Swordfish  are  most  abundant  on  the  shoals  near 
the  shore  and  on  the  banks  during  the  months  of 
July  and  August;  that  they  make  their  appearance 

155 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


on  the  frequented  cruising-grounds  between  Montauk 
Point  and  the  eastern  part  of  Georges  Banks  some- 
time between  the  25th  of  May  and  the  20th  of  June, 
and  that  they  remain  until  the  approach  of  cold 
weather  in  October  and  November.  The  dates  of 
the  first  fish  on  the  cruising-grounds  referred  to  are 
recorded  for  three  years,  and  are  reasonably  reliable : 
in  1875,  June  20th;  in  1877,  June  10th;  in  1878, 
June  14th. 

South  of  the  cruising-grounds  the  dates  of  arrival 
and  departure  are  doubtless  farther  apart,  the 
season  being  shorter  north  and  east.  There  are  no 
means  of  obtaining  information,  since  the  men  en- 
gaged in  this  fishery  are  the  only  ones  likely  to  re- 
member the  dates  when  the  fish  are  seen. 

The  swordfish  comes  into  our  waters  in  pursuit 
of  its  food.  At  least  this  is  the  most  probable 
explanation  of  its  movements,  since  the  duties  of 
reproduction  appear  to  be  performed  elsewhere. 
Like  the  tuna,  the  bluefish,  the  bonito,  and  the 
squiteague,  they  pursue  and  prey  upon  the  schools 
of  menhaden  and  mackerel,  which  are  so  abundant 
in  the  summer  months.  "When  you  see  swordfish, 
you  may  know  that  mackerel  are  about,"  said  an  old 
fisherman  to  me.  "When  you  see  the  fin-back 
whale  following  food,  there  you  may  find  swordfish," 
said  another.  The  swordfish  also  feeds  upon  squid, 
which  are  at  times  abundant  on  our  banks. 

To  what  extent  this  fish  is  amenable  to  the  in- 
fluences of  temperature  is  an  unsolved  problem.  We 
are  met  at  the  outset  by  the  fact  that  they  are  fre- 
quently taken  on  trawl  lines  which  are  set  at  the 
depth  of  one  hundred  fathoms  or  more,  on  the  off- 

156 


SWORDFISH 


shore  banks.  We  know  that  the  temperature  of  the 
water  in  these  localities  and  at  that  depth  is  sure  to 
be  less  than  40°  Fahr.  How  is  this  fact  to  be  recon- 
ciled with  the  known  habits  of  the  fish,  that  it  pre- 
fers the  warmest  weather  of  summer  and  swims 
at  the  surface  in  water  of  temperature  ranging  from 
55°  to  70°,  sinking  when  cool  winds  blow  below? 
The  case  seemed  clear  enough  until  the  inconvenient 
discovery  was  made  that  swordfish  are  taken  on 
bottom  trawl  lines.  In  other  respects  their  habits 
agree  closely  with  those  of  the  mackerel  tribe,  all 
the  members  of  which  seem  sensitive  to  slight 
changes  in  temperature,  and  which,  as  a  rule,  pre- 
fer temperature  in  the  neighborhood  of  50°  or  more. 

The  appearance  of  the  fish  at  the  surface  depends 
largely  upon  the  temperature.  They  are  seen  only 
upon  quiet  summer  days,  in  the  morning  before  ten 
or  eleven  o'clock,  and  in  the  afternoon  about  four 
o'clock.  Old  fishermen  say  that  they  rise  when  the 
mackerel  rise,  and  when  the  mackerel  go  down  they 
go  down  also. 

Regarding  the  winter  abode  of  the  swordfish,  con- 
jecture is  useless.  I  have  already  discussed  this 
question  at  length  with  reference  to  the  menhaden 
and  mackerel.  With  the  swordfish  the  conditions 
are  very  different.  The  former  are  known  to  spawn 
in  our  waters,  and  the  schools  of  young  ones  follow 
the  old  ones  in  toward  the  shores.  The  latter  do 
not  spawn  in  our  waters.  We  cannot  well  believe 
that  they  hibernate,  nor  is  the  hypothesis  of  a  so- 
journ in  the  middle  strata  of  mid-ocean  exactly 
tenable.  Perhaps  they  migrate  to  some  distant 
region,  where  they  spawn.    But  then  the  spawning- 

157 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


time  of  this  species  in  the  Mediterranean,  as  is  re- 
lated in  a  subsequent  paragraph,  appears  to  occur 
in  the  summer  months,  at  the  very  time  when  the 
swordfish  are  most  abundant  in  our  own  waters, 
apparently  feeling  no  responsibility  for  the  per- 
petuation of  their  species. 

The  swordfish,  when  swimming  at  the  surface, 
usually  allows  its  dorsal  fin  and  the  upper  lobe  of  its 
caudal  fin  to  be  visible,  projecting  out  of  the  water. 
It  is  this  habit  which  enables  the  fisherman  to  detect 
the  presence  of  the  fish.  It  swims  slowly  along,  and 
the  fishing-schooner  with  a  light  breeze  finds  no  diffi- 
culty in  overtaking  it.  When  excited  its  motions 
are  very  rapid  and  nervous.  Swordfish  are  some- 
times seen  to  leap  entirely  out  of  the  water.  Early 
writers  attributed  this  habit  to  the  tormenting  pres- 
ence of  parasites,  but  this  theory  seems  hardly  neces- 
sary, knowing  what  we  do  of  its  violent  exertions  at 
other  times.  The  pointed  head,  the  fins  of  the  back 
and  abdomen  snugly  fitting  into  grooves,  the  ab- 
sence of  ventrals,  the  long,  lithe,  muscular  body, 
sloping  slowly  to  the  tail,  fits  it  for  the  most  rapid 
and  forceful  movement  through  the  water.  Prof. 
Richard  Owen,  testifying  in  an  England  court  in 
regard  to  its  power,  said: 

"It  strikes  with  the  accumulated  force  of  fifteen 
double-handed  hammers.  Its  velocity  is  equal  to 
that  of  a  swivel  shot,  and  is  as  dangerous  in  its  effect 
as  a  heavy  artillery  projectile." 

Many  very  curious  instances  are  on  record  of  the 
encounter  of  this  fish  with  other  fishes,  or  of  their 
attacks  upon  ships.  What  can  be  the  inducement 
for  it  to  attack  objects  so  much  larger  than  itself 

158 


SWORDFISH 


is  hard  to  surmise.  We  are  all  familiar  with  the 
couplet  from  Oppian: 

Nature  her  bounty  to  his  mouth  confined, 
Gave  him  a  sword,  but  left  unarmed  his  mind. 

It  surely  seems  as  if  temporary  insanity  some- 
times takes  possession  of  the  fish.  It  is  not  strange 
that  when  harpooned  it  should  retaliate  by  attack- 
ing its  assailant.  An  old  swordfisherman  told  Mr. 
Blackman  that  his  vessel  had  been  struck  twenty 
times.  There  are,  however,  many  instances  of  en- 
tirely unprovoked  assaults  on  vessels  at  sea.  Many 
of  these  are  recounted  in  a  later  portion  of  this 
memoir.  Their  movements  when  feeding  are  dis- 
cussed below  as  well  as  their  alleged  peculiarities 
of  movement  during  breeding  season. 

It  is  the  universal  testimony  of  our  fishermen  that 
two  are  never  seen  swimming  close  together.  Cap- 
tain Ashby  says  that  they  are  always  distant  from 
each  other  at  least  thirty  or  forty  feet. 

The  pugnacity  of  the  swordfish  has  become  a  by- 
word. Without  any  special  effort  on  my  part, 
numerous  instances  of  their  attacks  upon  vessels 
have  in  the  last  ten  years  found  their  way  into  the 
pigeonhole  labeled  "Swordfish." 

iElian  says  (b.  XXXII,  c.  6)  that  the  swordfish  has 
a  sharp-pointed  snout  with  which  it  is  able  to  pierce 
the  sides  of  a  ship  and  send  it  to  the  bottom,  in- 
stances of  which  have  been  known  near  a  place 
in  Mauritania  known  as  Cotte,  not  far  from  the  river 
Sixus,  on  the  African  side  of  the  Mediterranean. 
He  describes  the  sword  as  like  the  beak  of  the  ship 

159 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


known  as  the  trireme,  which  was  rowed  with  three 
banks  of  oars. 

The  London  Daily  News  of  December  11,  1868, 
contained  the  following  paragraph,  which  emanated, 
I  suspect,  from  the  pen  of  Prof.  R.  A.  Proctor. 

Last  Wednesday  the  court  of  common  pieas — rather  a  strange 
place,  by  the  by,  for  inquiring  into  the  natural  history  of  fishes 
— was  engaged  for  several  hours  in  trying  to  determine  under 
what  circumstances  a  swordfish  might  be  able  to  escape  scot- 
free  after  thrusting  his  snout  into  the  side  of  a  ship.  The  gal- 
lant ship  Dreadnaughty  thoroughly  repaired  and  classed  Al  at 
Lloyd's,  had  been  insured  for  £3,000  against  all  risks  of  the 
sea.  She  sailed  on  March  10,  1864,  from  Columbo  for  London. 
Three  days  later  the  crew,  while  fishing,  hooked  a  swordfish. 
Xiphias,  however,  broke  the  line,  and  a  few  moments  after 
leaped  half  out  of  the  water,  with  the  object,  it  should  seem, 
of  taking  a  look  at  his  persecutor,  the  Dreadnaught.  Prob- 
ably he  satisfied  himself  that  the  enemy  was  some  abnormally 
large  cetacean,  which  it  was  his  natural  duty  to  attack  forth- 
with. Be  this  as  it  may,  the  attack  was  made,  and  the  next 
morning  the  captain  was  awakened  with  the  unwelcome  in- 
telligence that  the  ship  had  sprung  a  leak.  She  was  taken 
back  to  Columbo,  and  thence  to  Cochin,  where  she  hove  down. 
Near  the  keel  was  found  a  round  hole,  an  inch  in  diameter, 
running  completely  through  the  copper  sheathing  and  planking. 

As  attacks  by  swordfish  are  included  among  sea  risks,  the 
insurance  company  was  willing  to  pay  the  damages  claimed 
by  the  owners  of  the  ship,  if  only  it  could  be  proved  that  the 
hole  had  been  really  made  by  a  swordfish.  No  instances  had 
ever  been  recorded  in  which  a  swordfish  which  had  passed  its 
beak  through  three  inches  of  stout  planking  could  withdraw 
without  the  loss  of  its  sword.  Mr.  Buckland  said  that  fish  have 
no  power  of  "backing,"  and  expressed  his  belief  that  he  could 
hold  a  swordfish  by  the  beak;  but  then  he  admitted  that  the 
fish  had  considerable  lateral  power,  and  might  so  "wriggle 
its  sword  out  of  the  hold."  And  so  the  insurance  company 
will  have  to  pay  nearly  £600  because  an  ill-tempered  fish  ob- 

160 


SWORDFISH 


jected  to  be  hooked  and  took  its  revenge  by  running  full  tilt 
against  copper  sheathing  and  oak  planking. 

The  food  of  the  swordfish  is  of  a  very  mixed 
nature. 

Doctor  Fleming  found  the  remains  of  sepias  in  its 
stomach,  and  also  small  fishes.  Oppian  stated  that 
it  eagerly  devours  the  Hippuris  (probably  Cory* 
phcena).  A  specimen  taken  off  Saconnet  July  22, 
1875,  had  in  its  stomach  the  remains  of  small  fish, 
perhaps  Stromateus  triacanthus,  and  jaws  of  a  squid, 
perhaps  Loligo  pealin.  Their  food  in  the  western 
Atlantic  consists  for  the  most  part  of  the  common 
schooling  species  of  fishes.  They  feed  on  men- 
haden, mackerel,  bonitoes,  bluefish,  and  other 
species  which  swim  in  close  schools.  Their  habits 
of  feeding  have  often  been  described  to  me  by  old 
fishermen.  They  are  said  to  rise  beneath  the  school 
of  small  fish,  striking  to  the  right  and  left  with  their 
swords  until  they  have  killed  a  number,  which  they 
then  proceed  to  devour.  Menhaden  have  been  seen 
floating  at  the  surface  which  have  been  cut  nearly 
in  twain  by  a  blow  of  a  sword.  Mr.  John  H.  Thomp- 
son remarks  that  he  has  seen  them  apparently 
throw  the  fish  in  the  air,  catching  them  on  the  fall. 

Capt.  Benjamin  Ashby  says  that  they  feed  on 
mackerel,  herring,  whiting,  and  menhaden.  He  has 
found  half  a  bucketful  of  small  fish  of  these  kind  in 
the  stomach  of  one  swordfish.  He  has  seen  them 
in  the  act  of  feeding.  They  rise  perpendicularly  out 
of  the  water  until  the  sword  and  two-thirds  of  the 
remainder  of  the  body  are  exposed  to  view.  He 
has  seen  a  school  of  herring  at  the  surface  on  Georges 
Banks  as  closely  as  they  could  be  packed.    A  sword- 

11  161 


/ 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


fish  came  up  through  the  dense  mass  and  fell  flat 
on  its  side,  striking  many  fish  with  the  sides  of  its 
sword.  He  has  at  one  time  picked  up  as  much  as 
a  bushel  of  herrings  thus  killed  by  a  swordfish  on 
Georges  Banks. 

But  little  is  known  regarding  their  time  and 
place  of  breeding.  They  are  said  to  deposit  their 
eggs  in  large  quantities  on  the  coasts  of  Sicily,  and 
European  writers  give  their  spawning-time  occurring 
the  latter  part  of  spring  and  the  beginning  of  summer. 
In  the  Mediterranean  they  occur  of  all  sizes  from 
four  hundred  pounds  down,  and  the  young  are  so 
plentiful  as  to  become  a  common  article  of  food. 

M.  Raymond,  who  brought  to  Cuvier  a  specimen 
of  aistiophorn  four  inches  long,  taken  in  January, 
1829,  in  the  Atlantic,  between  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  and  France,  reported  that  there  were  good 
numbers  of  young  sailfish  in  the  place  where  this 
was  taken. 

Meunier,  quoting  Spollongain,  states  that  the 
swordfish  does  not  approach  the  coast  of  Sicily  ex- 
cept in  the  season  of  reproduction;  the  males  are 
then  seen  pursuing  the  females.  It  is  a  good  time 
to  capture  them,  for  when  the  female  has  been 
taken  the  male  lingers  near  and  is  easily  approached. 
The  fish  are  abundant  in  the  Straits  of  Messina  from 
the  middle  of  April  to  the  middle  of  September; 
early  in  the  season  they  hug  the  Calabrian  shore, 
approaching  from  the  north;  after  the  end  of  June 
they  are  most  abundant  on  the  Sicilian  shore,  ap- 
proaching from  the  south. 

From  other  circumstances,  it  seems  certain  that 
there  are  spawning-grounds  in  the  seas  near  Sicily 

162 


SWORDFISH 


and  Genoa,  for  from  November  to  the  1st  of  March 
young  ones  are  taken  in  the  Straits  of  Messina,  ran- 
ging in  weight  from  half  a  pound  to  twelve  pounds. 

In  the  Mediterranean,  as  has  been  already  stated, 
the  young  fish  are  found  from  November  to  March, 
and  here  from  July  to  the  middle  of  September  the 
male  fish  are  seen  pursuing  the  female  over  the 
shoals,  and  at  this  time  the  males  are  easily  taken. 
Old  swordfish  fishermen,  Captain  Ashby  and  Cap- 
tain Kirby,  assure  me  that  on  our  coast,  out  of 
thousands  of  specimens  they  have  taken,  they  have 
never  seen  one  containing  eggs.  I  have  myself  dis- 
sected several  males,  none  of  which  were  near  breed- 
ing-time. In  the  European  waters  they  are  said  often 
to  be  seen  swimming  in  pairs,  male  and  female. 
Many  sentimental  stories  were  current,  especially 
among  the  old  writers,  concerning  the  conjugal 
affection  and  unselfish  devotion  of  the  swordfish, 
but  they  seem  to  have  originated  in  the  imagina- 
tive brain  of  the  naturalist  rather  than  in  his  per- 
ceptive faculties.  It  is  said  that  when  the  female 
fish  is  taken  the  male  seems  devoid  of  fear,  approaches 
the  boat,  and  allows  himself  easily  to  be  taken,  but 
if  this  be  true,  it  appears  to  be  the  case  only  in  the 
height  of  the  breeding  season,  and  is  easily  under- 
stood. I  cannot  learn  that  two  swordfish  have  ever 
been  seen  associated  together  in  our  waters,  though 
I  have  made  frequent  and  diligent  inquiry. 

There  is  no  inherent  improbability,  however,  in 
this  story  regarding  the  swordfish  in  Europe,  for  the 
same  thing  is  stated  by  Professor  Poey  as  the  result 
upon  the  habits  of  Tetrapturus. 

The  only  individual  of  which  we  have  the  exact 

163 


TALES  OF  FISHES 

measurements  was  taken  off  Saconnet,  Rhode 
Island,  July  23,  1874.  This  was  seven  feet  seven 
inches  long,  weighing  one  hundred  and  thirteen 
pounds.  Another,  taken  off  No  Man's  Land,  July 
20,  1875,  and  cast  in  plaster  for  the  collection  of 
the  National  Museum,  weighed  one  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds  and  measured  about  seven  feet. 
Another,  taken  off  Portland,  August  15,  1878,  was 
3,999  millimeters  long  and  weighed  about  six  hun- 
dred pounds.  Many  of  these  fish  doubtless  attain  the 
weight  of  four  and  five  hundred  pounds,  and  some 
perhaps  grow  to  six  hundred;  but  after  this  limit 
is  reached,  I  am  inclined  to  believe  larger  fish  are 
exceptional.  Newspapers  are  fond  of  recording  the 
occurrence  of  giant  fish,  weighing  one  thousand 
pounds  and  upward,  and  old  sailors  will  in  good 
faith  describe  the  enormous  fish  which  they  saw  at 
sea,  but  could  not  capture;  but  one  well-authenti- 
cated instance  of  accurate  weighing  is  much  more 
valuable.  The  largest  one  ever  taken  by  Capt. 
Benjamin  Ashby,  for  twenty  years  a  swordfish 
fisherman,  was  killed  on  the  shoals  back  of  Edgar- 
town,  Massachusetts.  When  salted  it  weighed  six 
hundred  and  thirty-nine  pounds.  Its  live  weight 
must  have  been  as  much  as  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
or  eight  hundred.  Its  sword  measured  nearly  six 
feet.  This  was  an  extraordinary  fish  among  the 
three  hundred  or  more  taken  by  Captain  Ashby  in 
his  long  experience.  He  considers  the  average  size 
to  be  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  dressed, 
or  five  hundred  and  twenty-five  alive.  Captain 
Martin,  of  Gloucester,  estimated  the  average  size  at 
three  to  four  hundred  pounds.    The  largest  known 

164 


SWORDFISH 


to  Captain  Michaux  weighed  six  hundred  and  twenty- 
eight.  The  average  about  Block  Island  he  con- 
siders to  be  two  hundred  pounds. 

The  size  of  the  smallest  swordfish  taken  on  our 
eastern  coast  is  a  subject  of  much  deeper  interest, 
for  it  throws  light  on  the  time  and  place  of  breed- 
ing. There  is  some  difference  of  testimony  regard- 
ing the  average  size,  but  all  fishermen  with  whom  I 
have  talked  agree  that  very  small  ones  do  not  find 
their  way  into  our  shore  waters.  Numerous  very 
small  specimens  have,  however,  been  already  taken 
by  the  Fish  Commission  at  sea,  off  our  middle  and 
southern  coast. 

Capt.  John  Rowe  has  seen  one  which  did  not  weigh 
more  than  seventy-five  pounds  when  taken  out  of 
the  water. 

Capt.  R.  H.  Hurlbert  killed  near  Block  Island,  in 
July,  1877,  one  which  weighed  fifty  pounds  and 
measured  about  two  feet  without  its  sword. 

Captain  Ashby's  smallest  weighed  about  twenty- 
five  pounds  when  dressed;  this  he  killed  off  No 
Man's  Land.  He  tells  me  that  a  Bridgeport  smack 
had  one  weighing  sixteen  pounds  (or  probably 
twenty-four  when  alive),  and  measuring  eighteen 
inches  without  its  sword. 

In  August,  1878,  a  small  specimen  of  the  mackerel- 
snark,  Lamna  cornubica,  was  captured  at  the  mouth 
of  Gloucester  Harbor.  In  its  nostril  was  sticking  a 
sword,  about  three  inches  long,  of  a  young  swordfish. 
When  this  was  pulled  out  the  blood  flowed  freely, 
indicating  that  the  wound  was  recent-  The  fish  to 
which  this  sword  belonged  cannot  have  exceeded 
ten  or  twelve  inches  in  length.    Whether  the  small 

165 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


swordfish  met  with  its  misfortune  in  our  waters,  or 
whether  the  shark  brought  this  trophy  from  beyond 
the  sea,  is  an  unsolved  problem. 

Lutken  speaks  of  a  very  young  individual  taken 
in  the  Atlantic,  latitude  32°  50'  N.,  74°  19'  W. 
This  must  be  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
southeast  of  Cape  Hatteras. 

For  many  years  from  three  to  six  hundred  of 
these  fish  have  been  taken  annually  on  the  New 
England  coast.  It  is  not  unusual  for  twenty-five 
or  more  to  be  seen  in  the  course  of  a  single  day's 
cruising,  and  sometimes  as  many  as  this  are  visible 
from  the  masthead  at  one  time.  Captain  Ashby 
saw  twenty  at  one  time,  in  August,  1889,  between 
Georges  Banks  and  the  South  Shoals.  One  Glouces- 
ter schooner,  Midnight,  Capt.  Alfred  Wixom,  took 
fourteen  in  one  day  on  Georges  Banks  in  1877. 

Capt.  John  Rowe  obtained  twenty  barrels,  or  four 
thousand  pounds,  of  salt  fish  on  one  trip  to  Georges 
Banks;  this  amount  represents  twenty  fish  or  more. 
Captain  Ashby  has  killed  one  hundred  and  eight 
swordfish  in  one  year;  Capt.  M.  C.  Tripp  killed 
about  ninety  in  1874. 

Such  instances  as  these  indicate  in  a  general  way 
the  abundance  of  the  swordfish.  A  vessel  cruising 
within  fifty  miles  of  our  coast,  between  Cape  May 
and  Cape  Sable,  during  the  months  of  June,  July, 
August,  and  September,  cannot  fail,  on  a  favorable 
day,  to  come  in  sight  of  several  of  them.  Mr.  Earll 
states  that  the  fishermen  of  Portland  never  knew 
them  more  abundant  than  in  1879.  This  is  prob- 
ably due  in  part  to  the  fact  that  the  fishery  there  is 
of  a  very  recent  origin. 

166 


SWORDFISH 


There  is  no  evidence  of  any  change  in  their  abun- 
dance, either  increase  or  decrease.  Fishermen  agree 
that  they  are  as  plentiful  as  ever,  nor  can  any  change 
be  anticipated.  The  present  mode  does  not  destroy 
them  in  any  considerable  numbers,  each  individual 
fish  being  the  object  of  special  pursuit.  The  soli- 
tary habits  of  the  species  will  always  protect  them 
from  wholesale  capture,  so  destructive  to  schooling 
fish.  Even  if  this  were  not  the  case,  the  evidence 
proves  that  spawning  swordfish  do  not  frequent  our 
waters.  When  a  female  shad  is  killed,  thousands 
of  possible  young  die  also.  The  swordfish  taken  by 
our  fishermen  carry  no  such  precious  burden. 

"The  small  swordfish  is  very  good  meat,"  remarked 
Josselyn,  in  writing  of  the  fishes  of  England  in  the 
seventeenth  century.  Since  Josselyn  probably  never 
saw  a  young  swordfish,  unless  at  some  time  he  had 
visited  the  Mediterranean,  it  is  fair  to  suppose  that 
his  information  was  derived  from  some  Italian 
writer. 

It  is,  however,  a  fact  that  the  flesh  of  the  sword- 
fish,  though  somewhat  oily,  is  a  very  acceptable 
article  of  food.  Its  texture  is  coarse;  the  thick, 
fleshy,  muscular  layers  cause  it  to  resemble  that  of 
the  halibut  in  constituency.  Its  flavor  is  by  many 
considered  fine,  and  is  not  unlike  that  of  the  blue- 
fish.  Its  color  is  gray.  The  meat  of  the  young 
fish  is  highly  prized  on  the  Mediterranean,  and  is 
said  to  be  perfectly  white,  compact,  and  of  delicate 
flavor.  Swordfish  are  usually  cut  up  into  steaks — 
thick  slices  across  the  body — and  may  be  broiled 
or  boiled. 

The  apparatus  ordinarily  employed  for  the  capture 

167 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


of  the  swordfish  is  simple  in  the  extreme.  It  is  the 
harpoon  with  the  detachable  head.  When  the  fish 
is  struck,  the  head  of  the  harpoon  remains  in  the 
body  of  the  fish,  and  carries  with  it  a  light  rope 
which  is  either  made  fast  or  held  by  a  man  in  a 
small  boat,  or  is  attached  to  some  kind  of  a  buoy, 
which  is  towed  through  the  water  by  the  struggling 
fish,  and  which  marks  its  whereabouts  after  death. 

The  harpoon  consists  of  a  pole  fifteen  or  sixteen 
feet  in  length,  usually  of  hickory  or  some  other  hard 
wood,  upon  which  the  bark  has  been  left,  so  that  the 
harpooner  may  have  a  firmer  hand-grip.  This  pole 
is  from  an  inch  and  a  half  to  two  inches  in  diameter, 
and  at  one  end  is  provided  with  an  iron  rod,  or 
"shank,"  about  two  feet  long  and  five-eighths  of  an 
inch  in  diameter.  This  "shank"  is  fastened  to  the 
pole  by  means  of  a  conical  or  elongated,  cuplike  ex- 
pansion at  one  end,  which  fits  over  the  sharpened 
end  of  the  pole,  to  which  it  is  secured  by  screws  or 
spikes.  A  light  line  extends  from  one  end  of  the 
pole  to  the  point  where  it  joins  the  "shank"  and  in 
this  line  is  tied  a  loop  by  which  is  made  fast  another 
short  line  which  secures  the  pole  to  the  vessel  or 
boat,  so  that  when  it  is  thrown  at  the  fish  it  cannot 
be  lost. 

Upon  the  end  of  the  "shank"  fits  the  head  of 
the  harpoon,  known  by  the  names  swordfish-iron, 
lily-iron,  and  Indian  dart.  The  form  of  this  weapon 
has  undergone  much  variation.  The  fundamental 
idea  may  very  possibly  have  been  derived  from  the 
Indian  fish-dart,  numerous  specimens  of  which  are 
in  the  National  Museum,  from  various  tribes  of 
Indians  of  New  England,  British  America,  and  the 

168 


SWORDFISH 

Pacific.  However  various  the  modifications  may 
have  been,  the  similarity  of  the  different  shapes  is 
no  less  noteworthy  from  the  fact  that  all  are  pecul- 
iarly American.  In  the  enormous  collection  of  fish- 
ery implements  of  all  lands  at  the  late  exhibition  at 
Berlin,  nothing  of  the  kind  could  be  found.  What 
is  known  to  whalers  as  a  toggle-harpoon  is  a  modi- 
fication of  the  lily-iron,  but  so  greatly  changed  by 
the  addition  of  a  pivot  by  which  the  head  of  the 
harpoon  is  fastened  to  the  shank  that  it  can  hardly 
be  regarded  as  the  same  weapon.  The  lily-iron  is, 
in  principle,  exactly  what  a  whaleman  would  de- 
scribe by  the  word  "toggle."  It  consists  of  a  two- 
pointed  piece  of  metal,  having  in  the  center,  at  one 
side,  a  ring  or  socket  the  axis  of  which  is  parallel 
with  the  long  diameter  of  the  implement.  In  this 
is  inserted  the  end  of  the  pole-shank,  and  to  it  or 
near  it  is  also  attached  the  harpoon-line.  When  the 
iron  has  once  been  thrust  point  first  through  some 
solid  substance,  such  as  the  side  of  a  fish,  and  is 
released  upon  the  other  side  by  the  withdrawal  of 
the  pole  from  the  socket,  it  is  free,  and  at  once 
turns  its  long  axis  at  right  angle  to  the  direction 
in  which  the  harpoon-line  is  pulling,  and  this  is 
absolutely  prevented  from  withdrawal.  The  prin- 
ciple of  the  whale  harpoon  or  toggle-iron  is  similar, 
except  that  the  pole  is  not  withdrawn,  and  the  head, 
turning  upon  a  pivot  at  its  end,  fastens  the  pole 
itself  securely  to  the  fish,  the  harpoon-line  being 
attached  to  some  part  of  the  pole.  The  swordfish 
lily-iron  head,  as  now  ordinarily  used,  is  about  four 
inches  in  length,  and  consists  of  two  lanceloate 
blades,  each  about  an  inch  and  a  half  long,  connected 

169 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


by  a  central  piece  much  thicker  than  they,  in  which, 
upon  one  side,  and  next  to  the  flat  side  of  the  blade, 
is  the  socket  for  the  insertion  of  the  pole-shank. 
In  this  same  central  enlargement  is  forged  an  open- 
ing to  which  the  harpoon-line  is  attached.  The 
dart-head  is  usually  made  of  steel;  sometimes  of 
iron,  which  is  generally  galvanized;  sometimes  of 
brass. 

The  entire  weight  of  the  harpoon — pole,  shank, 
and  head — should  not  exceed  eighteen  pounds. 

The  harpoon-line  is  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  and 
fifty  fathoms  long,  and  is  ordinarily  what  is  known 
as  "fifteen-thread  line."  At  the  end  is  sometimes 
fastened  a  buoy,  and  an  ordinary  mackerel-keg  is 
generally  used  for  this  purpose. 

In  addition  to  the  harpoon  every  swordfish  fisher- 
man carries  a  lance.  This  implement  is  precisely  sim- 
ilar to  a  whaleman's  lance,  except  that  it  is  smaller, 
consisting  of  a  lanceolate  blade  perhaps  one  inch 
wide  and  two  inches  long,  upon  the  end  of  a  shank 
of  five-eighths-inch  iron,  perhaps  two  or  three  feet 
in  length,  fastened  in  the  ordinary  way  upon  a  pole 
fifteen  to  eighteen  feet  in  length. 

The  swordfish  are  always  harpooned  from  the 
end  of  the  bowsprit  of  a  sailing-vesseh  It  is  next  to 
impossible  to  approach  them  in  a  small  boat.  All 
vessels  regularly  engaged  in  this  fishery  are  supplied 
with  a  special  apparatus  called  a  "rest,"  or  "pul- 
pit," for  the  support  of  the  harpooner  as  he  stands 
on  the  bowsprit,  and  this  is  almost  essential  to  suc- 
cess, although  it  is  possible  for  an  active  man  to 
harpoon  a  fish  from  this  station  without  the  aid  of 
the  ordinary  framework.    Not  only  the  professional 

170 


SWORDFISH 


swordfish  fisherman,  but  many  mackerel-schooners 
and  packets  are  supplied  in  this  manner. 

The  swordfish  never  comes  to  the  surface  except 
in  moderate,  smooth  weather.  A  vessel  cruising  in 
search  of  them  proceeds  to  the  fishing-ground,  and 
cruises  hither  and  thither  wherever  the  abundance 
of  small  fish  indicates  that  they  ought  to  be  found. 
Vessels  which  are  met  are  hailed  and  asked  whether 
any  swordfish  have  been  seen,  and  if  tidings  are  thus 
obtained  the  ship's  course  is  at  once  laid  for  the 
locality  where  they  were  last  noticed.  A  man  is 
always  stationed  at  the  masthead,  where,  with  the 
keen  eye  which  practice  has  given  him,  he  can 
easily  descry  the  telltale  dorsal  fins  at  a  distance 
of  two  or  three  miles.  When  a  fish  has  once  been 
sighted,  the  watch  "sings  out,"  and  the  vessel  is 
steered  directly  toward  it.  The  skipper  takes  his 
place  in  the  "pulpit"  holding  the  pole  in  both  hands 
by  the  small  end,  and  directing  the  man  at  the 
wheel  by  voice  and  gesture  how  to  steer.  There  is 
no  difficulty  in  approaching  the  fish  with  a  large 
vessel,  although,  as  has  already  been  remarked, 
they  will  not  suffer  a  small  boat  to  come  near  them. 
The  vessel  plows  and  swashes  through  the  water, 
plunging  its  bowsprit  into  the  waves  without  ex- 
citing their  fears.  Noises  frighten  them  and  drive 
them  down.  Although  there  would  be  no  difficulty 
in  bringing  the  end  of  a  bowsprit  directly  over  the 
fish,  a  skilful  harpooner  never  waits  for  this.  When 
the  fish  is  from  six  to  ten  feet  in  front  of  the  vessel 
it  is  struck.  The  harpoon  is  never  thrown,  the  pole 
being  too  long.  The  strong  arm  of  the  harpooner 
punches  the  dart  into  the  back  of  the  fish,  right  at 

171 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


the  side  of  the  high  dorsal  fin,  and  the  pole  is  with- 
drawn and  fastened  again  to  its  place.  When  the 
dart  has  been  fastened  to  the  fish  the  line  is  allowed 
to  run  out  as  far  as  the  fish  will  carry  it,  and  is  then 
passed  in  a  small  boat,  which  is  towing  at  the  stern. 
Two  men  jump  into  this,  and  pull  in  upon  the  line 
until  the  fish  is  brought  in  alongside;  it  is  then 
killed  with  a  whale-lance  or  a  whale-spade,  which  is 
stuck  into  the  gills. 

The  fish  having  been  killed,  it  is  lifted  upon  the 
deck  by  a  purchase  tackle  of  two  double  blocks 
rigged  in  the  shrouds. 

The  pursuit  of  the  swordfish  is  much  more  excit- 
ing than  ordinary  fishing,  for  it  resembles  the  hunt- 
ing of  large  animals  upon  the  land  and  partakes 
more  of  the  nature  of  the  chase.  There  is  no  slow 
and  careful  baiting  and  patient  waiting,  and  no  dis- 
appointment caused  by  the  accidental  capture  of 
worthless  "bait-stealers."  The  game  is  seen  and  fol- 
lowed, and  outwitted  by  wary  tactics,  and  killed  by 
strength  of  arm  and  skill.  The  swordfish  is  a  power- 
ful antagonist  sometimes,  and  sends  his  pursuers' 
vessel  into  harbor  leaking,  and  almost  sinking, 
from  injuries  he  has  inflicted.  I  have  known  a  vessel 
to  be  struck  by  wounded  swordfish  as  many  as 
twenty  times  in  a  season.  There  is  even  the  spice 
of  personal  danger  to  savor  the  chase,  for  the  men 
are  occasionally  wounded  by  the  infuriated  fish. 
One  of  Captain  Ashby's  crew  was  severely  wounded 
by  a  swordfish  which  thrust  his  beak  through  the  oak 
floor  of  a  boat  on  which  he  was  standing,  and  pene- 
trated about  two  inches  in  his  naked  heel.  The 
strange  fascination  draws  men  to  this  pursuit  when 

172 


SWORDFISH 


they  have  once  learned  its  charms.  An  old  swordfish 
fisherman,  who  had  followed  the  pursuit  for  twenty 
years,  told  me  that  when  he  was  on  the  cruising- 
ground,  he  fished  all  night  in  his  dreams,  and  that 
many  a  time  he  has  rubbed  the  skin  off  his  knuckles 
by  striking  them  against  the  ceiling  of  his  bunk 
when  he  raised  his  arms  to  thrust  the  harpoon  into 
visionary  monster  swordfishes. 

The  Spear-fish  or  Bill-fish 

The  bill-fish  or  spear-fish,  Tetrapturus  indicus 
(with  various  related  forms,  which  may  or  may  not 
be  specifically  identical),  occurs  in  the  western 
Atlantic  from  the  West  Indies  (latitude  10°  to  20° 
N.)  to  southern  England  (latitude  40°  N.);  in  the 
eastern  Atlantic,  from  Gibraltar  (latitude  45°  N.) 
to  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  (latitude  30°  S.)  in  the 
Indian .  Ocean,  the  Malay  Archipelago,  New  Zea- 
land (latitude  40°  S.),  and  on  the  west  coast  of  Chile 
and  Peru.  In  a  general  way,  the  range  is  between 
latitude  40°  N.  and  latitude  40°  S. 

The  species  of  Tetrapturus  which  we  have  been 
accustomed  to  call  T.  albidus,  abundant  about  Cuba, 
is  not  very  usual  on  the  coast  of  southern  New  Eng- 
land. Several  are  taken  every  year  by  the  sword- 
fish  fishermen.  I  have  not  known  of  their  capture 
along  the  southern  Atlantic  coast  of  the  United 
States.  All  I  have  known  about  were  taken  between 
Sandy  Hook  and  the  eastern  part  of  Georges  Banks. 

The  Mediterranean  spear-fish,  Tetrapturus  balone, 
appears  to  be  a  landlocked  form,  never  passing  west 
of  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar. 

173 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


The  spear-fish  in  our  waters  is  said  by  our  fisher- 
men to  resemble  the  swordfish  in  its  movements 
and  manner  of  feeding.  Professor  Poey  narrates 
that  both  the  Cuban  species  swim  at  a  depth  of 
one  hundred  fathoms,  and  they  journey  in  pairs, 
shaping  their  course  toward  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 
the  females  being  full  of  eggs.  Only  adults  are 
taken.  It  is  not  known  whence  they  come,  or  where 
they  breed,  or  how  the  young  return.  It  is  not  even 
known  whether  the  adult  fish  return  by  the  same 
route.  When  the  fish  has  swallowed  the  hook  it 
rises  to  the  surface,  making  prodigious  leaps  and 
plunges.  At  last  it  is  dragged  to  the  boat,  secured 
with  a  boat-hook,  and  beaten  to  death  before  it  is 
hauled  on  board.  Such  fishing  is  not  without  dan- 
ger, for  the  spear-fish  sometimes  rushes  upon  the 
boat,  drowning  the  fisherman,  or  wounding  him  with 
its  terrible  weapon.  The  fish  becomes  furious  at 
the  appearance  of  sharks,  which  are  its  natural 
enemies.  They  engage  in  violent  combats,  and  when 
the  spear-fish  is  attached  to  the  fisherman's  line  it 
often  receives  frightful  wounds  from  the  adversaries. 

The  spear-fish  strikes  vessels  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  swordfish.  I  am  indebted  to  Capt.  William 
Spicer,  of  Noank,  Connecticut,  for  this  note: 

Mr.  William  Taylor,  of  Mystic,  a  man  seventy-six  years 
old,  who  was  in  the  smack  Evergreen,  Capt.  John  Appleman, 
tells  me  that  they  started  from  Mystic,  October  3,  1832,  on  a 
fishing  voyage  to  Key  West,  in  company  with  the  smack  Morning 
Star,  Captain  Rowland.  On  the  12th  were  off  Cape  Hatteras, 
the  winds  blowing  heavily  from  the  northeast,  and  the  smack 
under  double-reefed  sails.  At  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening  they 
struck  a  woho,  which  shocked  the  vessel  all  over.  The  smack 
was  leaking  badly,  and  they  made  a  signal  to  the  Morning 

174 


SWORDFISH 

Star  to  keep  close  to  them.  The  next  morning  they  found  the 
leak,  and  both  smacks  kept  off  Charleston.  On  arrival  they 
took  out  the  ballast,  hove  her  out,  and  found  that  the  sword 
had  gone  through  the  planking,  timber,  and  ceiling.  The  plank 
was  two  inches  thick,  the  timber  five  inches,  and  the  ceiling  one- 
and-a-half-inch  white  oak.  The  sword  projected  two  inches 
through  the  ceiling,  on  the  inside  of  the  "after  run."  It  struck 
by  a  butt  on  the  outside,  which  caused  the  leak.  They  took 
out  and  replaced  a  piece  of  the  plank,  and  proceeded  on  their 
voyage. 

The  Sailfish 

The  sailfish,  Histiophorus  gladius  (with  H.  ameri- 
canus  and  H.  orientalis,  questionable  species,  and  H. 
pulchellus  and  H.  immaculatus,  young),  occurs  in 
the  Red  Sea,  Indian  Ocean,  Malay  Archipel- 
ago, and  south  at  least  as  far  as  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope  (latitude  35°  S.) ;  in  the  Atlantic  on  the 
coast  of  Brazil  (latitude  30°  S.)  to  the  equator,  and 
north  to  southern  New  England  (latitude  42°  N.); 
in  the  Pacific  to  southwestern  Japan  (latitude  30° 
to  10°  N.).  In  a  general  way  the  range  may  be 
said  to  be  in  tropical  and  temperate  seas,  between 
latitude  30°  S.  and  40°  N.,  and  in  the  western  parts 
of  those  seas. 

The  first  allusion  to  this  genus  occurs  in  Piso's 
Historia  Naturalis  Brasilia  printed  in  Amsterdam  in 
1648.  In  this  book  may  be  found  an  identical,  though 
rough,  figure  of  the  American  species,  accompanied 
by  a  few  lines  of  description,  which,  though  good, 
when  the  fact  that  they  were  written  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  is  brought  to  mind,  are  of  no  value 
for  critical  comparison. 

The  name  given  to  the  Brazilian  sailfish  by  Marc- 

175 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


grave,  the  talented  young  German  who  described 
the  fish  in  the  book  referred  to,  and  who  afterward 
sacrificed  his  life  in  exploring  the  unknown  fields  of 
American  zoology,  is  interesting,  since  it  gives  a 
clue  to  the  derivation  of  the  name  "boohoo,"  by 
which  this  fish,  and  probably  spear-fish,  are  known 
to  English-speaking  sailors  in  the  tropical  Atlantic. 

Sailfish  were  observed  in  the  East  Indies  by 
Renard  and  Valentijn,  explorers  of  that  region  from 
1680  to  1720,  and  by  other  Eastern  voyagers.  No 
species  of  the  genus  was,  however,  systematically 
described  until  1786,  when  a  stuffed  specimen  from 
the  Indian  Ocean,  eight  feet  long,  was  taken  to 
London,  where  it  still  remains  in  the  collections  of 
the  British  Museum.  From  this  specimen  M. 
Broussonet  prepared  a  description,  giving  it  the 
name  Scomber  gladius,  rightly  regarding  it  as  a  species 
allied  to  the  mackerel. 

From  the  time  of  Marcgrave  until  1872  it  does  not 
appear  that  any  zoologist  had  any  opportunity  to 
study  a  sailfish  from  America  or  even  the  Atlantic; 
yet  in  Gunther's  Catalogue,  the  name  H.  americanus 
is  discarded  and  the  species  of  America  is  assumed 
to  be  identical  with  that  of  the  Indian  Ocean. 

The  materials  in  the  National  Museum  consist 
of  a  skeleton  and  a  painted  plaster  cast  of  the 
specimen  taken  near  Newport,  Rhode  Island,  in 
August,  1872,  and  given  to  Professor  Baird  by  Mr. 
Samuel  Powell,  of  Newport.  No  others  were  ob- 
served in  our  waters  until  March,  1878,  when,  ac- 
cording to  Mr.  Neyle  Habersham,  of  Savannah, 
Georgia,  two  were  taken  by  a  vessel  between  Savan- 
nah and  Indian  River,  Florida,  and  were  brought  to 

176 


SWORDFISH 


Savannah,  where  they  attracted  much  attention  in 
the  market.  In  1873,  according  to  Mr.  E.  G.  Black- 
ford, a  specimen  in  a  very  mutilated  condition  was 
brought  from  Key  West  to  New  York  City. 

No  observations  have  been  made  in  this  country, 
and  recourse  must  be  had  to  the  statements  of  ob- 
servers in  the  other  hemisphere. 

In  the  Life  of  Sir  Stamford  Raffles  is  printed  a 
letter  from  Singapore,  under  date  of  November  30, 
1822,  with  the  following  statement: 

The  only  amusing  discovery  we  have  recently  made  is  that 
of  a  sailing-fish,  called  by  the  natives  "ikan  layer,"  of  about  ten 
or  twelve  feet  long,  which  hoists  a  mainsail,  and  often  sails  in 
the  manner  of  a  native  boat,  and  with  considerable  swiftness. 
I  have  sent  a  set  of  the  sails  home,  as  they  are  beautifully  cut 
and  form  a  model  for  a  fast-sailing  boat.  When  a  school  of  these 
are  under  sail  together  they  are  frequently  mistaken  for  a  school 
of  native  boats. 

The  fish  referred  to  is  in  all  likelihood  Histiophorus 
gladius,  a  species  very  closely  related  to,  if  not  iden- 
tical with,  our  own. 


The  Cutlass-fish 

The  cutlass-fish,  Trichiurus  lepturus,  unfortunately 
known  in  eastern  Florida  and  at  Pensacola  as  the 
swordfish;  at  New  Orleans,  in  the  St.  John's  River, 
and  at  Brunswick,  Georgia,  it  is  known  as  the 
6 6 silver  eel";  on  the  coast  of  Texas  as  "saber-fish," 
while  in  the  Indian  River  region  it  is  called  the  "skip- 
jack." No  one  of  these  names  is  particularly  ap- 
plicable, and,  the  latter  being  preoccupied,  it  would 

12  177 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


seem  advantageous  to  use  in  this  country  the  name 
"cutlass-fish/'  which  is  current  for  the  same  species 
in  the  British  West  Indies. 

Its  appearance  is  very  remarkable  on  account  of 
its  long,  compressed  form  and  its  glistening,  silvery 
color.  The  name  "scabbard-fish,"  which  has  been 
given  to  an  allied  species  in  Europe,  would  be  very 
proper  also  for  this  species,  for  in  general  shape  and 
appearance  it  looks  very  like  the  metallic  scabbard 
of  the  sword.  It  attains  the  length  of  four  or  five 
feet,  though  ordinarily  not  exceeding  twenty-five  or 
thirty  inches.  This  species  is  found  in  the  tropical 
Atlantic,  on  the  coast  of  Brazil,  in  the  Gulf  of  Cali- 
fornia, the  West  Indies,  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and 
north  to  Woods  Holl,  Massachusetts,  where,  during 
the  past  ten  years,  specimens  have  been  occasionally 
taken.  In  1845  one  was  found  at  Wellfleet,  Massa- 
chusetts; and  in  the  Essex  Institute  is  a  specimen 
which  is  said  to  have  been  found  on  the  shores  of 
the  Norway  Frith  many  years  ago,  and  during  the 
past  decade  it  has  become  somewhat  abundant  in 
southern  England.  It  does  not,  however,  enter  the 
Mediterranean.  Some  writers  believed  the  allied 
species,  Trichiurus  haumela,  found  in  the  Indian 
Ocean  and  Archipelago  and  in  various  parts  of  the 
Pacific,  to  be  specifically  the  same. 

The  cutlass-fish  is  abundant  in  the  St.  John's 
River,  Florida,  in  the  Indian  River  region,  and  in 
the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  Several  instances  were  related 
to  me  in  which  these  fish  had  thrown  themselves 
from  the  water  into  rowboats,  a  feat  which  might 
be  very  easily  performed  by  a  lithe,  active  species 
like  the  Trichiurus.    A  small  one  fell  into  a  boat 

178 


SWORDFISH 


crossing  the  mouth  of  the  Arlington  River,  where 
the  water  is  nearly  fresh. 

Many  individuals  of  the  same  species  are  taken 
every  year  at  the  mouth  of  the  St.  John's  River  at 
Mayport.  Stearn  states  that  they  are  caught  in 
the  deep  waters  of  the  bays  about  Pensacola,  swim- 
ming nearly  at  the  surface,  but  chiefly  with  hooks 
and  lines  from  the  wharves.  He  has  known  them 
to  strike  at  the  oars  of  the  boat  and  at  the  end  of 
the  ropes  that  trailed  in  the  water.  At  Pensacola 
they  reach  a  length  of  twenty  to  thirty  inches,  and 
are  considered  good  food  fish.  Richard  Hill  states 
that  in  Jamaica  this  species  is  much  esteemed,  and 
is  fished  for  assiduously  in  a  "hole,"  as  it  is  called 
— that  is,  a  deep  portion  of  the  waters  off  Fort 
Augusta.  This  is  the  best  fishing-place  for  the 
cutlass-fish,  Trichiurus.  The  fishing  takes  place  be- 
fore day;  all  lines  are  pulled  in  as  fast  as  they  are 
thrown  out,  with  the  certainty  that  the  cutlass  has 
been  hooked.  As  many  as  ninety  boats  have  been 
counted  on  this  fishing-ground  at  daybreak  during 
the  season. 


X 


THE  GLADIATOR  OF  THE  SEA 

THREE  summers  in  Catalina  waters  I  had  tried 
persistently  to  capture  my  first  broadbill  sword- 
fish;  and  so  great  were  the  chances  against  me  that 
I  tried  really  without  hope.  It  was  fisherman's 
pride,  I  imagined,  rather  than  hope  that  drove  me. 
At  least  I  had  a  remarkably  keen  appreciation  of 
the  defeats  in  store  for  any  man  who  aspired  to 
experience  with  that  marvel  of  the  sea — Xiphius 
gladius,  the  broadbill  swordsman. 

On  the  first  morning  of  my  fourth  summer,  1917, 
I  was  up  at  five.  Fine,  cool,  fresh,  soft  dawn  with 
a  pale  pink  sunrise.  Sea  rippling  with  an  easterly 
breeze.  As  the  sun  rose  it  grew  bright  and  warm. 
We  did  not  get  started  out  on  the  water  until  eight 
o'clock.  The  east  wind  had  whipped  up  a  little 
chop  that  promised  bad.  But  the  wind  gradually 
died  down  and  the  day  became  hot.  Great  thunder- 
heads  rose  over  the  mainland,  proclaiming  heat  on 
the  desert.  We  saw  scattered  sheerwater  ducks  and 
a  school  of  porpoises;  also  a  number  of  splashes 
that  I  was  sure  were  made  by  swordfish. 

The  first  broadbill  I  sighted  had  a  skinned  tail, 
and  evidently  had  been  in  a  battle  of  some  kind. 
We  circled  him  three  times  with  flying-fish  bait  and 

180 


XIPHIAS  GLADIUS,  THE  BROADSWORDED  GLADIATOR  OF  THE  SEA 


THE  GLADIATOR  OF  THE  SEA 


once  with  barracuda,  and  as  he  paid  no  attention 
to  them  we  left  him.  This  fish  leaped  half  out  on 
two  occasions,  once  showing  his  beautiful  proportions, 
his  glistening  silver  white,  and  his  dangerous-looking 
rapier. 

The  second  one  leaped  twice  before  we  neared 
him.  And  as  we  made  a  poor  attempt  at  circling 
him,  he  saw  the  boat  and  would  have  none  of  our 
offers. 

The  third  one  was  skimming  along  just  under  the 
surface,  difficult  to  see.  After  one  try  at  him  we 
lost  him. 

They  were  not  up  on  the  surface  that  day,  as  they 
are  when  the  best  results  are  obtained.  The  east 
wind  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  that. 
These  fish  would  average  about  three  hundred  pounds 
each.  Captain  Dan  says  the  small  ones  are  more 
wary,  or  not  so  hungry,  for  they  do  not  strike  readily. 

I  got  sunburnt  and  a  dizzy  headache  and  almost 
seasick.  Yet  the  day  was  pleasant.  The  first  few 
days  are  always  hard,  until  I  get  broken  in. 

Next  morning  the  water  and  conditions  were  ideal. 
The  first  two  swordfish  we  saw  did  not  stay  on  the 
surface  long  enough  to  be  worked.  The  third  one 
stayed  up,  but  turned  away  from  the  bait  every 
time  we  got  it  near  him.    So  we  left  him. 

About  noon  I  sighted  a  big  splash  a  mile  off  shore- 
ward, and  we  headed  that  way.  Soon  I  sighted  fins. 
The  first  time  round  we  got  the  bait  right  and  I  felt 
the  old  thrill.   He  went  down.  I  waited;  but  in  vain. 

He  leaped  half  out,  and  some  one  snapped  a 
picture.  It  looked  like  a  fortunate  opportunity 
grasped.    We  tried  him  again,  with  flying-fish  and 

181 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


barracuda.  But  he  would  not  take  either.  Yet  he 
loafed  around  on  the  surface,  showing  his  colors, 
quite  near  the  boat.  He  leaped  clear  out  once,  but 
I  saw  only  the  splash.  Then  he  came  out  sideways, 
a  skittering  sort  of  plunge,  lazy  and  heavy.  He  was 
about  a  three-hundred  pounder,  white  and  blue  and 
green,  a  rare  specimen  of  fish.  We  tried  him  again 
and  drew  a  bait  right  in  front  of  him.  No  use! 
Then  we  charged  him — ran  him  down.  Even  then 
he  was  not  frightened,  and  came  up  astern.  At  last, 
discouraged  at  his  indifference,  we  left  him. 

This  day  was  ideal  up  to  noon.  Then  the  sun 
got  very  hot.  My  wrists  were  burnt,  and  neck  and 
face.  My  eyes  got  tired  searching  the  sea  for  fins. 
It  was  a  great  game,  this  swordfishing,  and  beat  any 
other  I  ever  tried,  for  patience  and  endurance.  The 
last  fish  showed  his  cunning.  They  were  all  differ- 
ent, and  a  study  of  each  would  be  fascinating  and 
instructive. 

Next  morning  was  fine.  There  were  several  hours 
when  the  sea  was  smooth  and  we  could  have  sighted 
a  swordfish  a  long  distance.  We  went  eastward  of 
the  ship  course  almost  over  to  Newport.  At  noon  a 
westerly  wind  sprang  up  and  the  water  grew  rough. 
It  took  some  hours  to  be  out  of  it  to  the  leeward  of 
the  island. 

I  saw  a  whale  bend  his  back  and  sound  and  lift 
his  flukes  high  in  the  air — one  of  the  wonder  sights 
of  the  ocean. 

It  was  foggy  all  morning,  and  rather  too  cool. 
No  fish  of  any  kind  showed  on  the  surface.  One  of 
those  inexplicably  blank  days  that  are  inevitable 
in  sea  angling. 

182 


THE  GLADIATOR  OF  THE  SEA 


When  we  got  to  the  dock  we  made  a  discovery. 
There  was  a  kink  in  my  leader  about  one  inch  above 
the  hook.  Nothing  but  the  sword  of  old  Xiphius 
gladius  could  have  made  that  kink !  Then  I  remem- 
bered a  strange,  quick,  hard  jerk  that  had  taken 
my  bait,  and  which  I  thought  had  been  done  by  a 
shark.    It  was  a  swordfish  striking  the  bait  off! 

Next  day  we  left  the  dock  at  six  fifteen,  Dan  and 
I  alone.  The  day  was  lowering  and  windy — looked 
bad.  We  got  out  ahead  of  every  one.  Trolled  out 
five  miles,  then  up  to  the  west  end.  We  got  among 
the  Japs  fishing  for  albacore. 

About  eleven  I  sighted  a  B.  B.  We  dragged  a 
bait  near  him  and  he  went  down  with  a  flirt  of  his 
tail.  My  heart  stood  still.  Dan  and  I  both  made 
sure  it  was  a  strike.  But,  no!  He  came  up  far 
astern,  and  then  went  down  for  good. 

The  sea  got  rough.  The  wind  was  chilling  to  the 
bone.  Sheerwater  ducks  were  everywhere,  in  flocks 
and  singly.  Saw  one  yellow  patch  of  small  bait  fish 
about  an  inch  long.  This  patch  was  forty  yards 
across.    No  fish  appeared  to  be  working  on  it. 

Dan  sighted  a  big  swordfish.  We  made  for  him. 
Dan  put  on  an  albacore.  But  it  came  off  before  I 
could  let  out  the  line.  Then  we  tried  a  barracuda. 
I  got  a  long  line  out  and  the  hook  pulled  loose. 
This  was  unfortunate  and  aggravating.  We  had 
one  barracuda  left.    Dan  hooked  it  on  hard. 

"That  '11  never  come  off!"  he  exclaimed.  We 
circled  old  Xiphius,  and  when  about  fifty  yards  dis- 
tant he  lifted  himself  clear  out — a  most  terrifying 
and  magnificent  fish.  He  would  have  weighed  four 
hundred.    His  colors  shone — blazed — purple  blue, 

183 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


pale  green,  iridescent  copper,  and  flaming  silver. 
Then  he  made  a  long,  low  lunge  away  from  us.  I 
bade  him  good-by,  but  let  the  barracuda  drift  back. 
We  waited  a  long  time  while  the  line  slowly  bagged, 
drifting  toward  us.  Suddenly  I  felt  a  quick,  strong 
pull.  It  electrified  me.  I  yelled  to  Dan.  He  said, 
excitedly,  "Feed  it  to  him!"  but  the  line  ceased 
to  play  out.  I  waited,  slowly  losing  hope,  with 
my  pulses  going  back  to  normal.  After  we  drifted 
for  five  minutes  I  wound  in  the  line.  The  bar- 
racuda was  gone  and  the  leader  had  been  rolled 
up.  This  astounded  us.  That  swordfish  had  taken 
my  bait.  I  felt  his  first  pull.  Then  he  had  come 
toward  the  boat,  crushing  the  bait  off  the  hook, 
without  making  even  a  twitch  on  the  slack  line.  It 
was  heartbreaking.  But  we  could  not  have  done 
any  different.  Dan  decided  the  fish  had  come  after 
the  teasers.  This  experience  taught  us  exceeding 
respect  for  the  broadbill. 

Again  we  were  off  early  in  the  morning.  Wind 
outside  and  growing  rough.  Sun  bright  until  off 
Isthmus,  when  we  ran  into  fog.  The  Jap  albacore- 
boats  were  farther  west.  Albacore  not  biting  well. 
Sea  grew  rough.  About  eleven  thirty  the  fog  cleared 
and  the  sea  became  beautifully  blue  and  white- 
crested. 

I  was  up  on  the  deck  when  a  yell  from  below  made 
me  jump.  I  ran  back.  Some  one  was  holding  my 
rod,  and  on  the  instant  that  a  huge  swordfish  got 
the  bait  had  not  the  presence  of  mind  to  throw  off 
the  drag  and  let  out  line.  We  hurried  to  put  on 
another  flying-fish  and  I  let  out  the  line. 

Soon  Dan  yelled,  "There  he  is — behind  your  bait!" 

184 


THE  GLADIATOR  OF  THE  SEA 


I  saw  him — huge,  brown,  wide,  weaving  after  my 
bait.  Then  he  hit  it  with  his  sword.  I  imagined 
I  could  feel  him  cut  it.  Winding  in,  I  found  the  bait 
cut  off  neatly  back  of  the  head.  While  Dan  hur- 
ried with  another  bait  I  watched  for  the  swordfish, 
and  saw  him  back  in  the  wake,  rather  deep.  He 
was  following  us.  It  was  an  intensely  exciting  mo- 
ment. I  let  the  bait  drift  back.  Almost  at  once  I 
felt  that  peculiar  rap  at  my  bait,  then  another. 
Somehow  I  knew  he  had  cut  off  another  flying-fish. 
I  reeled  in.  He  had  severed  this  bait  in  the  middle. 
Frantically  we  baited  again.  I  let  out  a  long  line, 
and  we  drifted.  Hope  was  almost  gone  when  there 
came  a  swift  tug  on  my  line,  and  then  the  reel 
whirred.  I  thumbed  the  pad  lightly.  Dan  yelled 
for  me  to  let  him  have  it.  I  was  all  tingling  with 
wonderful  thrills.  What  a  magnificent  strike!  He 
took  line  so  fast  it  amazed  me. 

All  at  once,  just  as  Dan  yelled  to  hook  him,  the 
reel  ceased  to  turn,  the  line  slacked.  I  began  to  jerk 
hard  and  wind  in,  all  breathless  with  excitement  and 
frenzy  of  hope.  Not  for  half  a  dozen  pumps  and 
windings  did  I  feel  him.  Then  heavy  and  strong 
came  the  weight.  I  jerked  and  reeled.  But  I  did 
not  get  a  powerful  strike  on  that  fish.  Suddenly  the 
line  slacked  and  my  heart  contracted.  He  had 
shaken  the  hook.  I  reeled  in.  Bait  gone!  He  had 
doubled  on  me  and  run  as  swiftly  toward  the  boat 
as  he  had  at  first  run  from  it. 

The  hook  had  not  caught  well.  Probably  he  had 
just  held  the  bait  between  his  jaws.  The  disappoint- 
ment was  exceedingly  bitter  and  poignant.  My  re- 
spect for  Xiphius  increased  in  proportion  to  my  sense 

185 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


of  lost  opportunity.  This  great  fish  thinks!  That 
was  my  conviction. 

We  sighted  another  that  refused  to  take  a  bait 
and  soon  went  down. 

We  had  learned  the  last  few  days  that  broadbills 
will  strike  when  not  on  the  surface,  just  as  Marlin 
swordfish  do. 

On  our  next  day  out  we  had  smooth  sea  all  morn- 
ing, with  great,  slow-running  swells,  long  and  high, 
with  deep  hollows  between.  Vast,  heaving  bosom  of 
the  deep!  It  was  majestic.  Along  the  horizon  ran 
dark,  low,  lumpy  waves,  moving  fast.  A  thick  fog, 
like  a  pall,  hung  over  the  sea  all  morning. 

About  eleven  o'clock  I  sighted  fins.  We  made 
a  circle  round  him,  and  drew  the  bait  almost  right 
across  his  bill.  He  went  down.  Again  that  familiar 
waiting,  poignant  suspense !  .  .  .  He  refused  to  strike. 

Next  one  was  a  big  fellow  with  pale  fins.  We 
made  a  perfect  circle,  and  he  went  down  as  if  to 
take  the  bait!  .  .  .  But  he  came  up.  We  tried  again. 
Same  result.  Then  we  put  on  an  albacore  and 
drew  that,  tail  first,  in  front  of  him.  Slowly  he 
swam  toward  it,  went  down,  and  suddenly  turned 
and  shot  away,  leaving  a  big  wake.  He  was  badly 
scared  by  that  albacore. 

Next  one  we  worked  three  times  before  he  went 
down,  and  the  last  one  gave  us  opportunity  for  only 
one  circle  before  he  sank. 

They  are  shy,  keen,  and  wise. 

The  morning  following,  as  we  headed  out  over  a 
darkly  rippling  sea,  some  four  miles  off  Long  Point, 
where  we  had  the  thrilling  strikes  from  the  big  sword- 
fish,  and  which  place  we  had  fondly  imagined  was 

186 


THE  GLADIATOR  OF  THE  SEA 


our  happy  hunting-ground — because  it  was  near 
shore  and  off  the  usual  fishing  course  out  in  the 
channel — we  ran  into  Boschen  fighting  a  fish. 

This  is  a  spectacle  not  given  to  many  fishermen, 
and  I  saw  my  opportunity. 

With  my  glass  I  watched  Boschen  fight  the  sword- 
fish,  and  I  concluded  from  the  way  he  pulled  that 
he  was  fast  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  We  went 
on  our  way  then,  and  that  night  when  I  got  in  I 
saw  his  wonderful  swordfish,  the  world's  record  we 
all  knew  he  would  get  some  day.  Four  hundred  and 
sixty-three  pounds!  And  he  had  the  luck  to  kill 
this  great  fish  in  short  time.  My  friend  Doctor 
Riggin,  a  scientist,  dissected  this  fish,  and  found 
that  Boschen's  hook  had  torn  into  the  heart.  This 
strange  feature  explained  the  easy  capture,  and, 
though  it  might  detract  somewhat  from  Boschen's 
pride  in  the  achievement,  it  certainly  did  not  de- 
tract from  the  record. 

That  night,  after  coming  in  from  the  day's  hunt 
for  swordfish,  Dan  and  I  decided  to  get  good  bait. 
At  five  thirty  we  started  for  seal  rocks.  The  sun 
was  setting,  and  the  red  fog  over  the  west  end  of 
the  island  was  weird  and  beautiful.  Long,  slow 
swells  were  running,  and  they  boomed  inshore  on 
the  rocks.  Seals  were  barking — a  hoarse,  raucous 
croak.  I  saw  a  lonely  heron  silhouetted  against  the 
red  glow  of  the  western  horizon. 

We  fished — trolling  slowly  a  few  hundred  yards 
offshore — and  soon  were  fighting  barracuda,  which 
we  needed  so  badly  for  swordfish  bait. 

They  strike  easily,  and  put  up  a  jerky  kind  of 
battle.    They  are  a  long,  slim  fish,  yellow  and  white 

187 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


in  the  water,  a  glistening  pale  bronze  and  silver 
when  landed.  I  hooked  a  harder-fighting  fish,  which, 
when  brought  in,  proved  to  be  a  white  sea-bass,  a 
very  beautiful  species  with  faint  purplish  color  and 
mottled  opal  tints  above  the  deep  silver. 

Next  morning  we  left  the  bay  at  six  thirty.  It  was 
the  calmest  day  we  had  had  in  days.  The  sea  was 
like  a  beveled  mirror,  oily,  soft,  and  ethereal,  with 
low  swells  barely  moving.  An  hour  and  a  half  out 
we  were  alone  on  the  sea,  out  of  sight  of  land,  with 
the  sun  faintly  showing,  and  all  around  us,  inclosing 
and  mystical,  a  thin  haze  of  fog. 

Alone,  alone,  all  alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea!  This 
was  wonderful,  far  beyond  any  pursuit  of  swordfish. 

We  sighted  birds,  gulls,  and  ducks  floating  like 
bits  of  colored  cork,  and  pieces  of  kelp,  and  at  length 
a  broadbill.  We  circled  him  three  times  with  barra- 
cuda, and  again  with  a  flying-fish.  Apparently  he 
had  no  interest  in  edibles.  He  scorned  our  lures. 
But  we  stayed  with  him  until  he  sank  for  good. 

Then  we  rode  the  sea  for  hours,  searching  for  fins. 

At  ten  forty  we  sighted  another.  Twice  we  drew 
a  fresh  fine  barracuda  in  front  of  him,  which  he  re- 
fused. It  was  so  disappointing,  in  fact,  really  sick- 
ening. 

Dan  was  disgusted.  He  said,  "We  can't  get  them 
to  bite!" 

And  I  said,  "Let's  try  again!" 

So  we  circled  him  once  more.  The  sea  was  beau- 
tifully smooth,  with  the  slow  swells  gently  heaving. 
The  swordfish  rode  them  lazily  and  indifferently. 
His  dorsal  stood  up  straight  and  stiff,  and  the  big 
sickle-shaped  tail-fin  wove  to  and  fro  behind.  I 

188 


THE  GLADIATOR  OF  THE  SEA 


gazed  at  them  longingly,  in  despair,  as  unattainable. 
I  knew  of  nothing  in  the  fishing  game  as  tantalizing 
and  despairing  as  this  sight. 

We  got  rather  near  him  this  time,  as  he  turned, 
facing  us,  and  slowly  swam  in  the  direction  of  my 
bait.  I  could  see  the  barracuda  shining  astern.  Dan 
stopped  the  boat.  I  slowly  let  out  line.  The  sword- 
fish  drifted  back,  and  then  sank. 

I  waited,  intensely,  but  really  without  hope. 
And  I  watched  my  bait  until  it  sank  out  of  sight. 
Then  followed  what  seemed  a  long  wait.  Probably 
it  was  really  only  a  few  moments.  I  had  a  sort  of 
hopeless  feeling.  But  I  respected  the  fish  all  the 
more. 

Then  suddenly  I  felt  a  quiver  of  my  line,  as  if  an 
electric  current  had  animated  it.  I  was  shocked 
keen  and  thrilling.    My  line  whipped  up  and  ran  out. 

"He's  got  it!"  I  called,  tensely.  That  was  a 
strong,  stirring  instant  as  with  fascinated  eyes  I 
watched  the  line  pass  swiftly  and  steadily  off  the 
reel.    I  let  him  run  a  long  way. 

Then  I  sat  down,  jammed  the  rod  in  the  socket, 
put  on  the  drag,  and  began  to  strike.  The  second 
powerful  sweep  of  the  rod  brought  the  line  tight 
and  I  felt  that  heavy  live  weight.  I  struck  at  least  a 
dozen  times  with  all  my  might  while  the  line  was 
going  off  the  reel.  The  swordfish  was  moving  pon- 
derously. Presently  he  came  up  with  a  great  splash, 
showing  his  huge  fins,  and  then  the  dark,  slender, 
sweeping  sword.  He  waved  that  sword,  striking 
fiercely  at  the  leader.  Then  he  went  down.  It  was 
only  at  this  moment  I  realized  I  had  again  hooked 
a  broadbill.    Time,  ten  forty-five. 

189 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


The  fight  was  on. 

For  a  while  he  circled  the  boat  and  it  was  impos- 
sible to  move  him  a  foot.  He  was  about  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  yards  from  us.  Every  once  in  a  while 
he  would  come  up.  His  sword  would  appear  first, 
a  most  extraordinary  sight  as  it  pierced  the  water. 
We  could  hear  the  swish.  Once  he  leaped  half  out. 
We  missed  this  picture.  I  kept  a  steady,  hard  strain 
on  him,  pumping  now  and  then,  getting  a  little  line 
in,  which  he  always  got  back.  The  first  hour  passed 
swiftly  with  this  surface  fight  alternating  with  his 
slow  heavy  work  down.    However,  he  did  not  sound. 

About  eleven  forty-five  he  leaped  clear  out,  and 
we  snapped  two  pictures  of  him.  It  was  a  fierce 
effort  to  free  the  hook,  a  leap  not  beautiful  and 
graceful,  like  that  of  the  Marlin,  but  magnificent 
and  dogged. 

After  this  leap  he  changed  his  tactics.  Repeated- 
ly I  was  pulled  forward  and  lifted  from  my  seat  by 
sudden  violent  jerks.  They  grew  more  frequent 
and  harder.  He  came  up  and  we  saw  how  he  did 
that.  He  was  facing  the  boat  and  batting  the 
leader  with  his  sword.  This  was  the  most  remark- 
able action  I  ever  observed  in  a  fighting  fish.  That 
sword  was  a  weapon.  I  could  hear  it  hit  the  leader. 
But  he  did  most  of  this  work  under  the  surface. 
Every  time  he  hit  the  leader  it  seemed  likely  to 
crack  my  neck.  The  rod  bent,  then  the  line  slack- 
ened so  I  could  feel  no  weight,  the  rod  flew  straight. 
I  had  an  instant  of  palpitating  dread,  feeling  he  had 
freed  himself — then  harder  came  the  irresistible, 
heavy  drag  again.  This  batting  of  the  leader  and 
consequent  slacking  of  the  line  worried  Dan,  as  it 

190 


THE  GLADIATOR  OF  THE  SEA 


did  me.  Neither  of  us  expected  to  hold  the  fish. 
As  a  performance  it  was  wonderful.  But  to  endure 
it  was  terrible.  And  he  batted  that  leader  at  least 
three  hundred  times! 

In  fact,  every  moment  or  two  he  banged  the  leader 
several  times  for  over  an  hour.    It  almost  wore  me 
out.    If  he  had  not  changed  those  tactics  again  those 
jerks  would  have  put  a  kink  in  my  neck  and  back. 
But  fortunately  he  came  up  on  the  surface  to  thresh 
about  some  more.    Again  he  leaped  clear,  affording 
us  another  chance  for  a  picture.    Following  that  he 
took  his  first  long  run.    It  was  about  one  hundred 
yards  and  as  fast  as  a  Marlin.    Then  he  sounded. 
He  stayed  down  for  half  an  hour.    When  he  came 
up  somewhat  he  seemed  to  be  less  resistant,  and  we 
dragged  him  at  slow  speed  for  several  miles.    At  the 
end  of  three  hours  I  asked  Dan  for  the  harness, 
which  he  strapped  to  my  shoulders.    This  afforded 
me  relief  for  my  arms  and  aching  hands,  but  the 
straps  cut  into  my  back,  and  that  hurt.    The  har- 
ness enabled  me  to  lift  and  pull  by  a  movement  of 
shoulders.    I  worked  steadily  on  him  for  an  hour, 
five  different  times  getting  the  two-hundred-foot 
mark  on  the  line  over  my  reel.    When  I  tired  Dan 
would  throw  in  the  clutch  and  drag  him  some  more. 
Once  he  followed  us  without  strain  for  a  while; 
again  we  dragged  him  two  or  three  miles.    And  most 
remarkable  of  all,  there  was  a  period  of  a  few  mo- 
ments when  he  towed  us.    A  wonderful  test  for  a 
twenty-four-strand  line!    We  made  certain  of  this 
by  throwing  papers  overboard  and  making  allowance 
for  the  drift.    At  that  time  there  was  no  wind.    I  had 
three  and  one-half  hours  of  perfectly  smooth  water. 

191 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


It  was  great  to  be  out  there  on  a  lonely  sea  with 
that  splendid  fish.  I  was  tiring,  but  did  not  fail 
to  see  the  shimmering  beauty  of  the  sea,  the  playing 
of  albacore  near  at  hand,  the  flight  of  frightened 
flying-fish,  the  swooping  down  of  gulls,  the  dim 
shapes  of  boats  far  off,  and  away  above  the  cloud- 
bank  of  fog  the  mountains  of  California. 

About  two  o'clock  our  indefatigable  quarry  be- 
gan to  belabor  the  leader  again.  He  appeared  even 
more  vicious  and  stronger.  That  jerk,  with  its  rag- 
ged, rough  loosening  of  the  line,  making  me  feel  the 
hook  was  tearing  out,  was  the  most  trying  action 
any  fish  ever  worked  on  me.  The  physical  effort 
necessary  to  hold  him  was  enough,  without  that  on- 
slaught on  my  leader.  Again  there  came  a  roar  of 
water,  a  splash,  and  his  huge  dark-blue  and  copper- 
colored  body  surged  on  the  surface.  He  wagged  his 
head  and  the  long  black  sword  made  a  half-circle. 
The  line  was  taut  from  boat  to  fish  in  spite  of  all  I 
could  do  in  lowering  my  rod.  I  had  to  hold  it  up 
far  enough  to  get  the  spring.  There  was  absolutely 
no  way  to  keep  him  from  getting  slack.  The  danger- 
ous time  in  fighting  heavy,  powerful  fish  is  when  they 
head  toward  the  angler.  Then  the  hook  will  pull  out 
more  easily  than  at  any  other  time.  He  gave  me  a 
second  long  siege  of  these  tactics  until  I  was  afraid 
I  would  give  out.  When  he  got  through  and  sounded 
I  had  to  have  the  back-rest  replaced  in  the  seat  to 
rest  my  aching  back. 

Three  o'clock  came  and  passed.  We  dragged  him 
awhile,  and  found  him  slower,  steadier,  easier  to 
pull.  That  constant  long  strain  must  have  been 
telling  upon  him.    It  was  also  telling  upon  me.  As 

192 


w 

H 
M 
O 

H 

m 
o 

Eh 
O 

I 

P 

W 
A 


o 

S  H 


THE  GLADIATOR  OF  THE  SEA 


I  tried  to  save  some  strength  for  the  finish,  I  had 
not  once  tried  my  utmost  at  lifting  him  or  pulling 
him  near  the  boat.  Along  about  four  o'clock  he 
swung  round  to  the  west  in  the  sun  glare  and  there 
he  hung,  broadside,  about  a  hundred  yards  out,  for 
an  hour.    We  had  to  go  along  with  him. 

The  sea  began  to  ripple  with  a  breeze,  and  at 
length  whitecaps  appeared.  In  half  an  hour  it  was 
rough,  not  bad,  but  still  making  my  work  exceed- 
ingly hard.  I  had  to  lift  the  rod  up  to  i  keep  the 
seat  from  turning  and  to  hold  my  footing  on  the 
slippery  floor.  The  water  dripping  from  the  reel 
had  wet  me  and  all  around  me. 

At  five  o'clock  I  could  not  stand  the  harness  any 
longer,  so  had  Dan  remove  it.  That  was  a  relief. 
I  began  to  pump  my  fish  as  in  the  earlier  hours  of 
the  fight.  Eventually  I  got  him  out  of  that  broad- 
side position  away  from  us  and  to  the  boat.  He 
took  some  line,  which  I  got  back.  I  now  began  to 
have  confidence  in  being  able  to  hold  him.  He  had 
ceased  batting  the  leader.  For  a  while  he  stayed 
astern,  but  gradually  worked  closer.  This  worried 
Dan.  He  was  getting  under  the  boat.  Dan  started 
faster  ahead  and  still  the  swordfish  kept  just  under 
us,  perhaps  fifty  feet  down.  It  was  not  long  until 
Dan  was  running  at  full  speed.  But  we  could  not 
lose  the  old  gladiator!  Then  I  bade  Dan  slow  down, 
which  he  was  reluctant  to  do.  He  feared  the  sword- 
fish  would  ram  us,  and  I  had  some  qualms  myself. 
At  five  thirty  he  dropped  astern  again  and  we 
breathed  freer.  At  this  time  I  decided  to  see  if  I 
could  pull  him  close.  I  began  to  pump  and  reel,  and 
inch  by  inch,  almost,  I  gained  line.    I  could  not  tell 

13  193 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


just  how  far  away  he  was,  because  the  marks  had 
worn  off  my  line.  It  was  amazing  and  thrilling, 
therefore,  to  suddenly  see  the  end  of  the  double  line 
appear.  Dan  yelled.  So  did  I.  Like  a  Trojan  I 
worked  till  I  got  that  double  line  over  my  reel. 
Then  we  all  saw  the  fish.  He  was  on  his  side,  swim- 
ming with  us — a  huge,  bird-shaped  creature  with  a 
frightful  bill.  Dan  called  me  to  get  the  leader  out 
of  water  and  then  hold.  This  took  about  all  I 
had  left  of  strength.  The  fish  wavered  from  side  to 
side,  and  Dan  feared  he  would  go  under  the  boat. 
He  ordered  me  to  hold  tight,  and  he  put  on  more 
speed.  This  grew  to  be  more  than  I  could  stand. 
It  was  desperately  hard  to  keep  the  line  from  slip- 
ping. And  I  knew  a  little  more  of  that  would  lose 
my  fish.  So  I  called  Dan  to  take  the  leader.  With 
his  huge  gaff  in  right  hand,  Dan  reached  for  the  leader 
with  his  left,  grasped  it,  surged  the  fish  up  and  made 
a  lunge.  There  came  a  roar  and  a  beating  against 
the  boat.  Dan  yelled  for  another  gaff.  It  was 
handed  to  him  and  he  plunged  that  into  the  fish. 

Then  I  let  down  my  rod  and  dove  for  the  short 
rope  to  lasso  the  sweeping  tail.  Fortunately  he  kept 
quiet  a  moment  in  which  I  got  the  loop  fast.  It  was 
then  Xiphius  gladius  really  woke  up.  He  began  a 
tremendous  beating  with  his  tail.  Both  gaff  ropes 
began  to  loosen,  and  the  rope  on  his  tail  flew  out  of 
my  hands.  Dan  got  it  in  time.  But  it  was  slipping. 
He  yelled  for  me  to  make  a  hitch  somewhere.  I 
was  pulled  flat  in  the  cockpit,  but  scrambled  up,  out 
on  the  stern,  and  held  on  to  that  rope  grimly  while 
I  tried  to  fasten  it.  Just  almost  impossible!  The 
water  was  deluging  us.    The  swordfish  banged  the 

194 


THE  GLADIATOR  OF  THE  SEA 


boat  with  sodden,  heavy  blows.  But  I  got  the  rope 
fast.  Then  I  went  to  Dan's  assistance.  The  two 
of  us  pulled  that  tremendous  tail  up  out  of  the  water 
and  made  fast  the  rope.  Then  we  knew  we  had  him. 
But  he  surged  and  strained  and  lashed  for  a  long 
while.  And  side  blows  of  his  sword  scarred  the 
boat.  At  last  he  sagged  down  quiet,  and  we  headed 
for  Avalon.  Once  more  in  smooth  water,  we  loaded 
him  astern.  I  found  the  hook  just  in  the  corner  of 
his  mouth,  which  fact  accounted  for  the  long  battle. 

Doctor  Riggin,  the  University  of  Pennsylvania 
anatomist,  and  classmate  of  mine,  dissected  this  fish 
for  me.  Two  of  the  most  remarkable  features  about 
Xiphius  gladius  were  his  heart  and  eye. 

The  heart  was  situated  deep  in  just  back  of  the 
gills.  It  was  a  big  organ,  exceedingly  heavy,  and 
the  most  muscular  tissue  I  ever  saw.  In  fact,  so 
powerfully  muscular  was  it  that  when  cut  the  tissue 
contracted  and  could  not  be  placed  together  again. 
The  valves  were  likewise  remarkably  well  developed 
and  strong.  This  wonderful  heart  accounted  for 
the  wonderful  vitality  of  the  swordfish.  The  eyes 
of  a  swordfish  likewise  proved  the  wonder  of  nature. 
They  were  huge  and  prominent,  a  deep  sea-blue 
set  in  pale  crystal  rims  and  black  circles.  A  sword- 
fish  could  revolve  his  eyes  and  turn  them  in  their 
sockets  so  that  they  were  absolutely  protected  in 
battle  with  his  mates  and  rivals.  The  eye  had  a 
covering  of  bone,  cup-shaped,  and  it  was  this  bone 
that  afforded  protection.  It  was  evident  that  when 
the  eye  was  completely  turned  in  the  swordfish  could 
not  see  at  all.  Probably  this  was  for  close  battle. 
The  muscles  were  very  heavy  and  strong,  one  at- 

195 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


tached  at  the  rim  of  the  eye  and  the  other  farther 
back.  The  optic  nerve  was  as  large  as  the  median 
nerve  of  a  man's  arm — that  is  to  say,  half  the  size 
of  a  lead-pencil.  There  were  three  coverings  over 
the  fluid  that  held  the  pupil.  And  these  were  as 
thick  and  tough  as  isinglass.  Most  remarkable  of 
all  was  the  ciliary  muscle  which  held  the  capacity 
of  contracting  the  lens  for  distant  vision.  A  sword- 
fish  could  see  as  far  as  the  rays  of  light  penetrated 
in  whatever  depth  he  swam.  I  have  always  sus- 
pected he  had  extraordinary  eyesight,  and  this  dis- 
section of  the  eye  proved  it.  No  fear  a  swordfish 
will  not  see  a  bait!  He  can  see  the  boat  and  the 
bait  a  long  distance. 

Doctor  Riggin  found  no  sperm  in  any  of  the  male 
fish  he  dissected,  which  was  proof  that  swordfish 
spawn  before  coming  to  Catalina  waters.  They  are 
a  warm-water  fish,  and  probably  head  off  the  Japan 
current  into  some  warm,  intersecting  branch  that 
leads  to  spawning-banks. 

This  was  happy  knowledge  for  me,  because  it 
will  be  good  to  know  that  when  old  Xiphius  gladius 
is  driven  from  Catalina  waters  he  will  be  roaming 
some  other  place  of  the  Seven  Seas,  his  great  sickle 
fins  shining  dark  against  the  blue. 


HAULED  ABOARD  WITH  BLOCK  AND  TACKLE 


XI 


SEVEN  MARLIN  SWORDFISH  IN  ONE  DAY 

SAN  CLEMENTE  lies  forty  miles  south  of  Santa 
Catalina,  out  in  the  Pacific,  open  to  wind  and 
fog,  scorched  by  sun,  and  beaten  on  every  shore  by 
contending  tides.  Seen  from  afar,  the  island  seems 
a  bleak,  long,  narrow  strip  of  drab  rock  rising  from 
a  low  west  end  to  the  dignity  of  a  mountain  near 
the  east  end.  Seen  close  at  hand,  it  is  still  barren, 
bleak,  and  drab;  but  it  shows  long  golden  slopes  of 
wild  oats;  looming,  gray,  lichen-colored  crags, 
where  the  eagles  perch;  and  rugged  deep  canons, 
cactus-covered  on  the  south  side  and  on  the  other 
indented  by  caves  and  caverns,  and  green  with 
clumps  of  wild-lilac  and  wild-cherry  and  arbor  vitse; 
and  bare  round  domes  where  the  wild  goats  stand 
silhouetted  against  the  blue  sky. 

This  island  is  volcanic  in  origin  and  structure, 
and  its  great  caves  have  been  made  by  blow-holes 
in  hot  lava.  Erosion  has  weathered  slope  and  wall 
and  crag.  For  the  most  part  these  slopes  and  walls 
are  exceedingly  hard  to  climb.  The  goat  trails  are 
narrow  and  steep,  the  rocks  sharp  and  ragged,  the 
cactus  thick  and  treacherous.  Many  years  ago 
Mexicans  placed  goats  on  the  island  for  the  need 
of  shipwrecked  sailors,  and  these  goats  have  trav- 

197 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


ersed  the  wild-oat  slopes  until  they  are  like  a  net- 
work of  trails.  Every  little  space  of  grass  has  its 
crisscross  of  goat  trails. 

I  rested  high  up  on  a  slope,  in  the  lee  of  a  rugged 
rock,  all  rust-stained  and  gray-lichened,  with  a  deep 
cactus-covered  canon  to  my  left,  the  long,  yellow, 
windy  slope  of  wild  oats  to  my  right,  and  beneath 
me  the  Pacific,  majestic  and  grand,  where  the  great 
white  rollers  moved  in  graceful  heaves  along  the 
blue.  The  shore-line,  curved  by  rounded  gravelly 
beach  and  jutted  by  rocky  point,  showed  creeping 
white  lines  of  foam,  and  then  green  water  spotted 
by  beds  of  golden  kelp,  reaching  out  into  the  deeps. 
Far  across  the  lonely  space  rose  creamy  clouds, 
thunderheads  looming  over  the  desert  on  the  main- 
land. 

A  big  black  raven  soared  by  with  dismal  croak. 
The  wind  rustled  the  oats.  There  was  no  other  sound 
but  the  sound  of  the  sea — deep,  low-toned,  booming 
like  thunder,  long  crash  and  continuous  roar. 

How  wonderful  to  watch  eagles  in  their  native 
haunts!  I  saw  a  bald  eagle  sail  by,  and  then  two 
golden  eagles  winging  heavy  flight  after  him.  There 
seemed  to  be  contention  or  rivalry,  for  when  the 
white-headed  bird  alighted  the  others  swooped  down 
upon  him.  They  circled  and  flew  in  and  out  of  the 
canon,  and  one  let  out  a  shrill,  piercing  scream. 
They  disappeared  and  I  watched  a  lonely  gull  riding 
the  swells.  He  at  least  was  at  home  on  the  restless 
waters.  Life  is  beautiful,  particularly  elemental 
life.  Then  far  above  I  saw  the  white-tipped  eagle 
and  I  thrilled  to  see  the  difference  now  in  his  flight. 
He  was  monarch  of  the  air,  king  of  the  wind,  lonely 

198 


SEVEN  MARLIN  SWORDFISH  IN  ONE  DAY 


and  grand  in  the  blue.  He  soared,  he  floated,  he 
sailed,  and  then,  away  across  the  skies  he  flew, 
swift  as  an  arrow,  to  slow  and  circle  again,  and 
swoop  up  high  and  higher,  wide-winged  and  free, 
ringed  in  the  azure  blue,  and  then  like  a  thunder- 
bolt he  fell,  to  vanish  beyond  the  crags. 

Again  I  saw  right  before  me  a  small  brown  hawk, 
poised  motionless,  resting  on  the  wind,  with  quiver- 
ing wings,  and  he  hung  there,  looking  down  for  his 
prey — some  luckless  lizard  or  rat.  He  seemed  sus- 
pended on  wires.  There,  down  like  a  brown  flash 
he  was  gone,  and  surely  that  swoop  meant  a  desert 
tragedy. 

I  heard  the  bleat  of  a  lamb  or  kid,  and  it  pierced 
the  melancholy  roar  of  the  sea. 

If  there  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore,  there 
was  indeed  rapture  here  high  above  it,  blown  upon 
by  the  sweet,  soft  winds.  I  heard  the  bleat  close  at 
hand.  Turning,  I  saw  a  she-goat  with  little  kid 
scarce  a  foot  high.  She  crossed  a  patch  of  cactus. 
The  kid  essayed  to  follow  here,  but  found  the  way 
too  thorny.  He  bleated — a  tiny,  pin-pointed  bleat 
— and  his  mother  turned  to  answer  encouragingly. 
He  leaped  over  a  cactus,  attempted  another,  and, 
failing,  fell  on  the  sharp  prickers.  He  bleated  in 
distress  and  scrambled  out  of  that  hard  and  pain- 
ful place.  The  mother  came  around,  and  presently, 
reunited,  they  went  on,  to  disappear. 

The  island  seemed  consecrated  to  sun  and  sea. 
It  lay  out  of  the  latitude  of  ships.  Only  a  few 
Mexican  sheep-herders  lived  there,  up  at  the  east 
end  where  less-rugged  land  allowed  pasture  for  their 
flocks.    A  little  rain  falls  during  the  winter  months, 

199 


TALES  OF  FISHES 

and  soon  disappears  from  the  porous  canon-beds. 
Water-holes  were  rare  and  springs  rarer.  The  sum- 
mit was  flat,  except  for  some  rounded  domes  of 
mountains,  and  there  the  deadly  cholla  cactus  grew 
— not  in  profusion,  but  enough  to  prove  the  dread 
of  the  Mexicans  for  this  species  of  desert  plant.  It 
was  a  small  bush,  with  cones  like  a  pine  cone  in 
shape,  growing  in  clusters,  and  over  stems  and  cones 
were  fine  steel-pointed  needles  with  invisible  hooks 
at  the  ends. 

A  barren,  lonely  prospect,  that  flat  plateau  above, 
an  empire  of  the  sun,  where  heat  veils  rose  and 
mirages  haunted  the  eye.  But  at  sunset  fog  rolled 
up  from  the  outer  channel,  and  if  the  sun  blasted 
the  life  on  the  island,  the  fog  saved  it.  So  there  was 
war  between  sun  and  fog,  the  one  that  was  the  lord 
of  day,  and  the  other  the  dew-laden  savior  of  night. 

South,  on  the  windward  side,  opened  a  wide  bay, 
Smugglers  Cove  by  name,  and  it  was  infinitely  more 
beautiful  than  its  name.  A  great  curve  indented 
the  league-long  slope  of  island,  at  each  end  of  which 
low,  ragged  lines  of  black  rock  jutted  out  into  the 
sea.  Around  this  immense  bare  amphitheater, 
which  had  no  growth  save  scant  cactus  and  patches 
of  grass,  could  be  seen  long  lines  of  shelves  where 
the  sea-levels  had  been  in  successive  ages  of  the 
past. 

Near  the  middle  of  the  curve,  on  a  bleached  bank, 
stood  a  lonely  little  hut,  facing  the  sea.  Old  and 
weather-beaten,  out  of  place  there,  it  held  and  fas- 
cinated the  gaze.  Below  it  a  white  shore-line  curved 
away  where  the  waves  rolled  in,  sadly  grand,  to 
break  and  spread  on  the  beach. 

200 


SEVEN  MARLIN  SWORDFISH  IN  ONE  DAY 


At  the  east  end,  where  the  jagged  black  rocks  met 
the  sea,  I  loved  to  watch  a  great  swell  rise  out  of  the 
level  blue,  heave  and  come,  slow-lifting  as  if  from 
some  infinite  power,  to  grow  and  climb  aloft  till  the 
blue  turned  green  and  sunlight  showed  through, 
and  the  long,  smooth  crest,  where  the  seals  rode, 
took  on  a  sharp  edge  to  send  wisps  of  spray  in  the 
wind,  and,  rising  sheer,  the  whole  swell,  solemn  and 
ponderous  and  majestic,  lifted  its  volume  one  beau- 
tiful instant,  then  curled  its  shining  crest  and  rolled 
in  and  down  with  a  thundering,  booming  roar,  all 
the  curves  and  contours  gone  in  a  green-white  seeth- 
ing mass  that  climbed  the  reefs  and  dashed  itself 
to  ruin. 

An  extraordinary  achievement  and  record  fell  to 
my  brother  R.  C.  It  was  too  much  good  luck  ever 
to  come  my  way.  Fame  is  a  fickle  goddess.  R.  C. 
had  no  ambition  to  make  a  great  catch  of  swordfish. 
He  angles  for  these  big  game  of  the  sea  more  to  fur- 
nish company  for  me  than  for  any  other  reason. 
He  likes  best  the  golden,  rocky  streams  where  the 
bronze-back  black-bass  hide,  or  the  swift,  amber- 
colored  brooks  full  of  rainbow  trout. 

I  must  add  that  in  my  opinion,  and  Captain 
Danielson's  also,  R.  C.  is  a  superior  angler,  and  all 
unconscious  of  it.  He  has  not  my  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  big  fish,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  need  that. 
He  is  powerful  in  the  shoulders  and  arms,  his  hands 
are  strong  and  hard  from  baseball  and  rowing,  and 
he  is  practically  tireless.  He  never  rested  while 
fighting  a  fish.    We  never  saw  him  lean  the  rod 

on  the  gunwale.    All  of  which  accounts  for  his 

201 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


quick  conquering  of  a  Marlin  swordfish.  We  have 
yet  to  see  him  work  upon  a  broadbill  or  a  big  tuna; 
and  that  is  something  Captain  Dan  and  I  are  an- 
ticipating with  much  pleasure  and  considerable 
doubt. 

August  31st  dawned  fine  and  cool  and  pleasant, 
rather  hazy,  with  warm  sun  and  smooth  sea. 

The  night  before  we  had  sat  in  front  of  our  tents 
above  the  beach  and  watched  the  flying-fish  come 
out  in  twos  and  threes  and  schools,  all  the  way 
down  the  rugged  coast.  I  told  the  captain  then 
that  swordfish  were  chasing  them.  But  he  was 
skeptical. 

This  morning  I  remembered,  and  I  was  watching. 
Just  at  the  Glory  Hole  my  brother  yelled,  "  Strike !" 
I  did  not  see  the  fish  before  he  hit  the  bait.  It  is 
really  remarkable  how  these  swordfish  can  get  to 
a  bait  on  the  surface  without  being  seen.  R.  C. 
hooked  the  Marlin. 

The  first  leap  showed  the  fish  to  be  small.  He 
did  not  appear  to  be  much  of  a  jumper  oj  fighter. 
He  leaped  six  times,  and  then  tried  to  swim  out  to 
sea.  Slow,  steady  work  of  R.  C.'s  brought  him  up 
to  the  boat  in  fifteen  minutes.  But  we  did  not  gaff 
him.  We  estimated  his  weight  at  one  hundred  and 
thirty  pounds.  Captain  Dan  cut  the  leader  close 
to  the  hook.  I  watched  the  fish  swim  lazily  away, 
apparently  unhurt,  and  sure  to  recover. 

We  got  going  again,  and  had  scarce  trolled  a 
hundred  yards  when  I  saw  something  my  com- 
panions missed.     I  stood  up. 

"Well,  this  starts  out  like  your  day,"  I  remarked 
to  my  brother. 

202 


SEVEN  MARLIN  SWORDFISH  IN  ONE  DAY 


Then  he  saw  a  purple  shape  weaving  back  of  his 
bait  and  that  galvanized  him  into  attention.  It 
always  thrilled  me  to  see  a  swordfish  back  of  the 
bait.  This  one  took  hold  and  ran  off  to  the  right. 
When  hooked  it  took  line  with  a  rush,  began  to 
thresh  half  out,  and  presently  sounded.  We  lost 
the  direction.  It  came  up  far  ahead  of  the  boat 
and  began  to  leap  and  run  on  the  surface. 

We  followed  while  R.  C.  recovered  the  line.  Then 
he  held  the  fish  well  in  hand;  and  in  the  short  time 
of  twelve  minutes  brought  the  leader  to  Dan's  hand. 
The  Marlin  made  a  great  splash  as  he  was  cut  loose. 

"Say,  two  swordfish  in  less  than  half  an  hour!"  I 
expostulated.    "Dan,  this  might  be  the  day." 

Captain  Dan  looked  hopeful.  We  were  always 
looking  for  that  day  which  came  once  or  twice  each 
season. 

"I'm  tired,"  said  my  brother.  "Now  you  catch 
a  couple." 

He  talked  about  swordfish  as  carelessly  as  he 
used  to  talk  about  sunfish.  But  he  was  not  in  the 
least  tired.  I  made  him  take  up  the  rod  again.  I 
sensed  events.  The  sea  looked  darkly  rippling,  in- 
viting, as  if  to  lure  us  on. 

We  had  worked  and  drifted  a  little  offshore.  But 
that  did  not  appear  to  put  us  out  of  the  latitude  of 
swordfish.  Suddenly  Captain  Dan  yelled,  "Look 
out!"  Then  we  all  saw  a  blaze  of  purple  back  of 
R.  C.'s  bait.  Dan  threw  out  the  clutch.  But  this 
Marlin  was  shy.  He  flashed  back  and  forth.  How 
swift!  His  motion  was  only  a  purple  flash.  He 
loomed  up  after  the  teasers.  We  had  three  of  these 
flying-fish  out  as  teasers,  all  close  to  the  boat.  I 

203 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


always  wondered  why  the  swordfish  appear  more 
attracted  to  the  teasers  than  to  our  hooked  baits 
only  a  few  yards  back. .  I  made  the  mistake  to  pull 
the  teasers  away  from  this  swordfish.  Then  he  left 
us. 

I  was  convinced,  however,  that  this  was  to  be 
R.  C.'s  day,  and  so,  much  to  his  amaze  and  annoy- 
ance, I  put  away  my  rod.  No  sooner  had  I  quit 
fishing  than  a  big  black  tail  showed  a  few  yards 
out  from  R.  C.'s  bait.  Then  a  shining  streak  shot 
across  under  the  water,  went  behind  R.  C.'s  bait, 
passed  it,  came  again.  This  time  I  saw  him  plainly. 
He  was  big  and  hungry,  but  shy.  He  rushed  the 
bait.  I  saw  him  take  it  in  his  pointed  jaws  and 
swerve  out  of  sight,  leaving  a  boil  on  the  surface. 
R.  C.  did  not  give  him  time  to  swallow  the  hook, 
but  struck  immediately.  The  fish  ran  off  two  hun- 
dred yards  and  then  burst  up  on  the  surface.  He 
was  a  jumper,  and  as  he  stayed  in  sight  we  all  be- 
gan to  yell  our  admiration.  He  cleared  the  water 
forty-two  times,  all  in  a  very  few  minutes.  At  the 
end  of  twenty-eight  minutes  R.  C,  with  a  red  face 
and  a  bulging  jaw,  had  the  swordfish  beaten  and 
within  reach  of  Captain  Dan. 

"He's  a  big  one — over  two  hundred  and  fifty," 
asserted  that  worthy.  "Mebbe  you  won't  strike 
a  bigger  one." 

"Cut  him  loose,"  I  said,  and  my  brother  echoed 
my  wish. 

It  was  a  great  sight  to  see  that  splendid  sword- 
fish  drift  away  from  the  boat — to  watch  him  slowly 
discover  that  he  was  free. 

"Ten  o'clock!    We'll  hang  up  two  records  to- 

204 


R.  C.  GREY  AND  RECORD  MARLIN 


SEVEN  MARLIN  SWORDFISH  IN  ONE  DAY 


day!"  boomed  Captain  Dan,  as  with  big,  swift  hands 
he  put  on  another  bait  for  R.  C. 

"Do  you  fellows  take  me  for  a  drag-horse?"  in- 
quired R.  C,  mildly.  "I've  caught  enough  sword- 
fish  for  this  year." 

"Why,  man,  it's  the  day!"  exclaimed  Captain 
Dan,  in  amaze  and  fear. 

"Humph!"  replied  my  brother. 

"But  the  chance  for  a  record!"  I  added,  weakly. 
"Only  ten  o'clock.  .  .  .  Three  swordfish  already. .  .  . 
Great  chance  for  Dan,  you  know.  .  .  .  Beat  the 
dickens  out  of  these  other  fishermen." 

"Aw,  that's  a  lot  of  'con'!"  replied  my  brother. 

Very  eloquently  then  I  elaborated  on  the  fact 
that  we  were  releasing  the  fish,  inaugurating  a  sports- 
man-like example  never  before  done  there;  that  it 
really  bid  fair  to  be  a  wonderful  day;  that  I  was 
having  a  great  chance  to  snap  pictures  of  leaping 
fish;  that  it  would  be  a  favor  to  me  for  him  to  go 
the  limit  on  this  one  occasion. 

But  R.  C.  showed  no  sign  of  wavering.  He  was 
right,  of  course,  and  I  acknowledged  that  afterward 
to  myself.  On  the  instant,  however,  I  racked  my 
brain  for  some  persuasive  argument.  Suddenly  I 
had  an  inspiration. 

"They  think  you're  a  dub  fisherman,"  I  declared, 
forcefully. 

"  They?"    My  brother  glared  darkly  at  me. 

"Sure,"  I  replied,  hurriedly,  with  no  intention  of 
explaining  that  dubious  they.  "Now's  your  chance 
to  fool  them." 

"Ahuh!  All  right,  fetch  on  a  flock  of  swordfish, 
and  then  some  broadbills,"  remarked  R.  C,  blandly. 

205 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


"Hurry,  Dan!  There's  a  fin  right  over  there.  Lead 
me  to  him!  See.55 

Sure  enough,  R.  C.  pointed  out  a  dark  sickle  fin 
on  the  surface.  I  marveled  at  the  sight.  It  cer- 
tainly is  funny  the  luck  some  fishermen  have! 
Captain  Dan,  beaming  like  a  sunrise,  swung  the 
boat  around  toward  the  swordfish. 

That  Marlin  rushed  the  teasers.  I  pulled  all 
three  away  from  him,  while  R.  C.  was  reeling  in  his 
bait  to  get  it  close.  Then  the  swordfish  fell  all  over 
himself  after  it.  He  got  it.  He  would  have  climbed 
aboard  after  it.  The  way  R.  C.  hooked  this  sword- 
fish  showed  that  somebody  had  got  his  dander  up 
and  was  out  to  do  things.  This  pleased  me  im- 
mensely. It  scared  me  a  little,  too,  for  R.  C. 
showed  no  disposition  to  give  line  or  be  gentle  to 
the  swordfish.  In  fact,  it  was  real  fight  now.  And 
this  particular  fish  appeared  to  have  no  show  on 
earth — or  rather  in  the  water — and  after  fourteen 
leaps  he  was  hauled  up  to  the  boat  in  such  short  order 
that  if  we  had  gaffed  him,  as  we  used  to  gaff  Marlin, 
we  would  have  had  a  desperate  fight  to  hold  him. 
But  how  easy  to  cut  him  free!  He  darted  down  like 
a  blue  streak.  I  had  no  fair  sight  of  him  to  judge 
weight,  but  Captain  Dan  said  he  was  good  and  heavy. 

"Come  on!  Don't  be  so  slow!"  yelled  R.  C,  with 
a  roving  eye  over  the  deep. 

Captain  Dan  was  in  his  element.  He  saw  victory 
perched  upon  the  mast  of  the  Leta  D.  He  moved 
with  a  celerity  that  amazed  me,  when  I  remembered 
how  exasperatingly  slow  he  could  be,  fooling  with 
kites.     This  was  Captain  Dan's  game. 

"The  ocean's  alive  with  swordfish!"  he  boomed. 

206 


SEVEN  MARLIN  SWORDFISH  IN  ONE  DAY 


Only  twice  before  had  I  heard  him  say  that,  and 
he  was  right  each  time.  I  gazed  abroad  over  the 
beautiful  sea,  and,  though  I  could  not  see  any 
swordfish,  somehow  I  believed  him.  It  was  difficult 
now,  in  this  exciting  zest  of  a  record  feat,  to  think 
of  the  nobler  attributes  of  fishing.  Strong,  earnest, 
thrilling  business  it  was  indeed  for  Captain  Dan. 

We  all  expected  to  see  a  swordfish  again.  That 
was  exactly  what  happened.  We  had  not  gone  a 
dozen  boat-lengths  when  up  out  of  the  blue  depths 
lunged  a  lazy  swordfish  and  attached  himself  to 
R.  C.'s  hook.  He  sort  of  half  lolled  out  in  lazy 
splashes  four  or  five  times.  He  looked  huge.  All  of 
a  sudden  he  started  off,  making  the  reel  hum.  That 
run  developed  swiftly.  Dan  backed  the  boat  full 
speed.  In  vain!  It  was  too  late  to  turn.  That 
swordfish  run  became  the  swiftest  and  hardest  I 
ever  saw.  A  four-hundred-yard  run,  all  at  once,  was 
something  new  even  for  me.  I  yelled  for  R.  C.  to 
throw  off  the  drag.  He  tried,  but  failed.  I  doubted 
afterward  if  that  would  have  done  any  good.  That 
swordfish  was  going  away  from  there.  He  broke 
the  line. 

"Gee!  What  a  run!"  I  burst  out.  "I'm  sorry. 
I  hate  to  break  off  hooks  in  fish." 

"Put  your  hand  on  my  reel,"  said  R.  C. 

It  was  almost  too  hot  to  bear  touching.  R.  C. 
began  winding  in  the  long  slack  line. 

"Did  you  see  that  one?"  he  asked,  grimly. 

"Not  plain.    But  what  I  did  see  looked  big." 

"Say,  he  was  a  whale!"  R.  C.'s  flashing  eyes 
showed  he  had  warmed  to  the  battle. 

In  just  ten  minutes  another  swordfish  was  chasing 

207 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


the  teasers.  It  was  my  thrilling  task  to  keep  them 
away  from  him.  Hard  as  I  pulled,  I  failed  to  keep 
at  least  one  of  them  from  him.  He  took  it  with  a 
"wop,55  his  bill  half  out  of  the  water,  and  as  he 
turned  with  a  splash  R.  C.  had  his  bait  right  there. 
Smash!  The  swordfish  sheered  off,  with  the  bait 
shining  white  in  his  bill.  When  hooked  he  broke 
water  about  fifty  yards  out  and  then  gave  an  exhibi- 
tion of  high  and  lofty  tumbling,  water-smashing,  and 
spray-flinging  that  delighted  us.  Then  he  took  to 
long,  greyhound  leaps  and  we  had  to  chase  him. 
But  he  did  not  last  long,  with  the  inexorable  R.  C. 
bending  back  on  that  Murphy  rod.  After  being  cut 
free,  this  swordfish  lay  on  the  surface  a  few  moments, 
acting  as  if  he  was  out  of  breath.  He  weighed  about 
one  hundred  and  fifty,  and  was  a  particularly  beau- 
tiful specimen.  The  hook  showed  in  the  corner  of 
his  mouth.  He  did  not  have  a  scratch  on  his  grace- 
ful bronze  and  purple  and  silver  body.  I  waved  my 
hat  at  him  and  then  he  slowly  sank. 

"What  next?"  I  demanded.  "This  can't  keep  up. 
Something  is  going  to  happen.5' 

But  my  apprehension  in  no  wise  disturbed  R.  C. 
or  Captain  Dan. 

They  proceeded  to  bait  up  again,  to  put  out  the 
teasers,  to  begin  to  troll;  and  then  almost  at  once  a 
greedy  swordfish  appeared,  absolutely  fearless  and 
determined.  R.  C.  hooked  him.  The  first  leap 
showed  the  Marlin  to  be  the  smallest  of  the  day  so 
far.  But  what  he  lacked  in  weight  he  made  up  in 
activity.  He  was  a  great  performer,  and  his  forte 
appeared  to  be  turning  upside  down  in  the  air. 
He  leaped  clear  twenty-two  times.    Then  he  settled 

208 


328-POUND  RECORD  MARLIN  BY  R.  C.  GREY.  SHAPELIEST 
AND  MOST  BEAUTIFUL  SPECIMEN  EVER  TAKEN 


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SEVEN  MARLIN  SWORDFISH  IN  ONE  DAY 


down  and  tried  to  plug  out  to  sea.  Alas!  that  human 
steam-winch  at  the  rod  drew  him  right  up  to  the 
boat,  where  he  looked  to  weigh  about  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  pounds, 

"Six!55  I  exclaimed,  as  we  watched  the  freed  fish 
swim  away.  "That5s  the  record.  .  .  .  And  all  let  go 
alive — unhurt.  .  .  .  Do  you  suppose  any  one  will  be- 
lieve us?55 

"It  doesn5t  make  any  difference,55  remarked  my 
brother.  "We  know.  That's  the  best  of  the  game 
— letting  the  fish  go  alive.55 

"Come  on!55  boomed  Dan,  with  a  big  flying-fish 
in  his  hands.    "You're  not  tired.55 

"Yes,  I  am  tired,55  replied  R.  C. 

"It5s  early  yet,55  I  put  in.  "We'll  cinch  the 
record  for  good.  Grab  the  rod.  I'll  enjoy  the 
work  for  you.'5 

R.  C.  resigned  himself,  not  without  some  remarks 
anent  the  insatiable  nature  of  his  host  and  boatman. 

We  were  now  off  the  east  end  of  Clemente  Island, 
that  bleak  and  ragged  corner  where  the  sea,  whether 
calm  or  stormy,  contended  eternally  with  the  black 
rocks,  and  where  the  green  and  white  movement  of 
waves  was  never  still.  When  almost  two  hundred 
yards  off  the  yellow  kelp-beds  I  saw  a  shadow  darker 
than  the  blue  water.  It  seemed  to  follow  the  boat, 
rather  deep  down  and  far  back.  But  it  moved. 
I  was  on  my  feet,  thrilling. 

"That's  a  swordfish!'5  I  called. 

"No,55  replied  R.  C. 

"Some  wavin5  kelp,  mebbe,55  added  Dan,  doubt- 
fully. 

"Slow  up  a  little,55  I  returned.    "I  see  purple." 

14  209 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


Captain  Dan  complied  and  we  all  watched.  We 
all  saw  an  enormous  colorful  body  loom  up,  take 
the  shape  of  a  fish,  come  back  of  R.  C.'s  bait,  hit  it 
and  take  it. 

"By  George !"  breathed  R.  C,  tensely.  His  line 
slowly  slipped  out  a  little,  then  stopped. 

"He's  let  go,"  said  my  brother. 

"There's  another  one,"  cried  Dan. 

With  that  I  saw  what  appeared  to  be  another 
swordfish,  deeper  down,  moving  slowly.  This  one 
also  looked  huge  to  me.  He  was  right  under  the 
teasers.  It  dawned  upon  me  that  he  must  have  an 
eye  on  them,  so  I  began  to  pull  them  in. 

As  they  came  in  the  purple  shadow  seemed  to 
rise.  It  was  a  swordfish  and  he  resembled  a  gun- 
boat with  purple  outriggers.  Slowly  he  came  on- 
ward and  upward,  a  wonderful  sight. 

"Wind  your  bait  in!"  I  yelled  to  R.  C. 

Suddenly  Dan  became  like  a  jumping-jack. 
"He's  got  your  hook,"  he  shouted  to  my  brother. 
"He's  had  it  all  the  time." 

The  swordfish  swam  now  right  under  the  stern 
of  the  boat  so  that  I  could  look  down  upon  him. 
He  was  deep  down,  but  not  too  deep  to  look  huge. 
Then  I  saw  R.  C.'s  leader  in  his  mouth.  He  had 
swallowed  the  flying-fish  bait  and  had  followed  us 
for  the  teasers.  The  fact  was  stunning.  R.  C, 
who  had  been  winding  in,  soon  found  out  that  his 
line  went  straight  down.  He  felt  the  fish.  Then 
with  all  his  might  he  jerked  to  hook  that  swordfish. 

Just  then,  for  an  instant  my  mind  refused  to  work 

swiftly.    It  was  locked  round  some  sense  of  awful 

expectancy.     I  remembered  my  camera  in  my 

210 


SEVEN  MARLIN  SWORDFISH  IN  ONE  DAY 


hands  and  pointed  it  where  I  expected  something 
wonderful  about  to  happen. 

The  water  on  the  right,  close  to  the  stern,  bulged 
and  burst  with  a  roar.  Upward  even  with  us,  above 
us,  shot  a  tremendously  large,  shiny  fish,  shaking 
and  wagging,  with  heavy  slap  of  gills. 

Water  deluged  the  boat,  but  missed  me.  I  act- 
ually smelled  that  fish,  he  was  so  close.  What  must 
surely  have  been  terror  for  me,  had  I  actually  seen 
and  realized  the  peril,  gave  place  to  flashing  thought 
of  the  one  and  great  chance  for  a  wonderful  picture 
of  a  big  swordfish  close  to  the  boat.  That  gripped 
me.  While  I  changed  the  focus  on  my  camera  I 
missed  seeing  the  next  two  jumps.  But  I  heard  the 
heavy  sousing  splashes  and  the  yells  of  Dan  and 
R.  C,  with  the  shrill  screams  of  the  ladies. 

When  I  did  look  up  to  try  to  photograph  the  next 
leap  of  the  swordfish  I  saw  him,  close  at  hand,  mon- 
strous and  animated,  in  a  surging,  up-sweeping 
splash.  I  heard  the  hiss  of  the  boiling  foam.  He 
lunged  away,  churning  the  water  like  a  sudden  whirl 
of  a  ferryboat  wheel,  and  then  he  turned  squarely 
at  us.  Even  then  Captain  Dan's  yell  did  not  warn 
us.  I  felt  rather  than  saw  that  he  had  put  on  full 
speed  ahead.  The  swordfish  dove  toward  us,  went 
under,  came  up  in  a  two-sheeted  white  splash,  and 
rose  high  and  higher,  to  fall  with  a  cracking  sound. 
Like  a  flash  of  light  he  shot  up  again,  and  began 
wagging  his  huge  purple-barred  body,  lifting  him- 
self still  higher,  until  all  but  his  tail  stood  ponder- 
ously above  the  surface;  and  then,  incredibly  power- 
ful, he  wagged  and  lashed  upright  in  a  sea  of  hissing 
foam,  mouth  open  wide,  blood  streaming  down  his 

211 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


wet  sides  and  flying  in  red  spray  from  his  slapping 
gills — a  wonderful  and  hair-raising  spectacle.  He 
stayed  up  only  what  seemed  a  moment.  During 
this  action  and  when  he  began  again  to  leap  and 
smash  toward  us,  I  snapped  my  camera  three  times 
upon  him.  But  I  missed  seeing  some  of  his  greatest 
leaps  because  I  had  to  look  at  the  camera  while 
operating  it. 

"Get  back!"  yelled  Dan,  hoarsely. 

I  was  so  excited  I  did  not  see  the  danger  of  the 
swordfish  coming  aboard.  But  Captain  Dan  did. 
He  swept  the  girls  back  into  the  cabin  doorway,  and 
pushed  Mrs.  R.  C.  into  a  back  corner  of  the  cockpit. 
Strange  it  seemed  to  me  how  pale  Dan  was! 

The  swordfish  made  long,  swift  leaps  right  at  the 
boat.  On  the  last  he  hit  us  on  the  stern,  but  too 
low  to  come  aboard.  Six  feet  closer  to  us  would 
have  landed  that  huge,  maddened  swordfish  right 
in  the  cockpit!  But  he  thumped  back,  and  the 
roar  of  his  mighty  tail  on  the  water  so  close  suddenly 
appalled  me.  I  seemed  to  grasp  how  near  he  had 
come  aboard  at  the  same  instant  that  I  associated 
the  power  of  his  tail  with  a  havoc  he  would  have 
executed  in  the  boat.  It  flashed  over  me  that  he 
would  weigh  far  over  three  hundred. 

When  he  thumped  back  the  water  rose  in  a  sound- 
ing splash,  deluging  us  and  leaving  six  inches  in  the 
cockpit.  He  sheered  off  astern,  sliding  over  the 
water  in  two  streaks  of  white  running  spray,  and 
then  up  he  rose  again  in  a  magnificent  wild  leap. 
He  appeared  maddened  with  pain  and  fright  and 
instinct  to  preserve  his  life. 

Again  the  fish  turned  right  at  us.    This  instant 

212 


SEVEN  MARLIN  SWORDFISH  IN  ONE  DAY 


was  the  most  terrifying.  Not  a  word  from  R.  C! 
But  out  of  the  tail  of  my  eye  I  saw  him  crouch,  ready 
to  leap.  He  grimly  held  on  to  his  rod,  but  there  had 
not  been  a  tight  line  on  it  since  he  struck  the  fish. 

Yelling  warningly,  Captain  Dan  threw  the  wheel 
hard  over.  But  that  seemed  of  no  use.  We  could 
not  lose  the  swordfish. 

He  made  two  dives  into  the  air,  and  the  next 
one  missed  us  by  a  yard,  and  showed  his  great, 
glistening,  striped  body,  thick  as  a  barrel,  and 
curved  with  terrible  speed  and  power,  right  along- 
side the  cockpit.  He  passed  us,  and  as  the  boat 
answered  to  the  wheel  and  turned,  almost  at  right 
angles,  the  swordfish  sheered  too,  and  he  hit  us  a 
sounding  thud  somewhere  foreward.  Then  he  went 
under  or  around  the  bow  and  began  to  take  line  off 
the  reel  for  the  first  time.  I  gave  him  up.  The 
line  caught  all  along  the  side  of  the  boat.  But  it 
did  not  break,  and  kept  whizzing  off  the  reel.  I 
heard  the  heavy  splash  of  another  jump.  When  we 
had  turned  clear  round,  what  was  our  amaze  and 
terror  to  see  the  swordfish,  seemingly  more  tigerish 
than  ever,  thresh  and  tear  and  leap  at  us  again. 
He  was  flinging  bloody  spray  and  wigwagging  his 
huge  body,  so  that  there  was  a  deep,  rough  splash- 
ing furrow  in  the  sea  behind  him.  I  had  never 
known  any  other  fish  so  fast,  so  powerful,  so  wild 
with  fury,  so  instinct  with  tremendous  energy  and 
life.  Dan  again  threw  all  his  weight  on  the  wheel. 
The  helm  answered,  the  boat  swung,  and  the  sword- 
fish  missed  hitting  us  square.  But  he  glanced  along 
the  port  side,  like  a  toboggan  down-hill,  and  he 
seemed  to  ricochet  over  the  water.    His  tail  made 

213 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


deep,  solid  thumps.  Then  about  a  hundred  feet 
astern  he  turned  in  his  own  length,  making  a  mael- 
strom of  green  splash  and  white  spray,  out  of  which 
he  rose  three-quarters  of  his  huge  body,  purple- 
blazed,  tiger-striped,  spear-pointed,  and,  with  the 
sea  boiling  white  around  him,  he  spun  around, 
creating  an  indescribable  picture  of  untamed  ferocity 
and  wild  life  and  incomparable  beauty.  Then  down 
he  splashed  with  a  sullen  roar,  leaving  a  red  foam 
on  the  white. 

That  appeared  the  end  of  his  pyrotechnics.  It  had 
been  only  a  few  moments.  He  began  to  swim  off 
slowly  and  heavily.  We  followed.  After  a  few 
tense  moments  it  became  evident  that  his  terrible 
surface  work  had  weakened  him,  probably  bursting 
his  gills,  from  which  his  life-blood  escaped. 

We  all  breathed  freer  then.  Captain  Dan  left 
the  wheel,  mopping  his  pale,  wet  face.  He  gazed 
at  me  to  see  if  I  had  realized  our  peril.  With  the 
excitement  over,  I  began  to  realize.  I  felt  a  little 
shaky  then.  The  ladies  were  all  talking  at  once, 
still  glowing  with  excitement.  Easy  to  see  they  had 
not  appreciated  the  danger!  But  Captain  Dan  and 
I  knew  that  if  the  swordfish  had  come  aboard — 
which  he  certainly  would  have  done  had  he  ever 
slipped  his  head  over  the  gunwale — there  would 
have  been  a  tragedy  on  the  Leta  D. 

"I  never  knew  just  how  easy  it  could  happen,'5 
said  Dan.  "No  one  ever  before  hooked  a  big  fish 
right  under  the  boat.55 

"With  that  weight,  that  tail,  right  after  being 
hooked,  he  would  have  killed  some  of  us  and  wrecked 
the  boat!"  I  exclaimed,  aghast. 

214 


SEVEN  MARLIN  SWORDFISH  IN  ONE  DAY 


"Well,  I  had  him  figured  to  come  into  the  boat 
and  I  was  ready  to  jump  overboard,"  added  my 
brother. 

"We  won't  cut  him  loose/5  said  Dan.  "That's 
some  fish.  But  he  acts  like  he  isn't  goin'  to  last 
long." 

Still,  it  took  two  hours  longer  of  persistent,  final 
effort  on  the  part  of  R.  C.  to  bring  this  swordfish 
to  gaff.  We  could  not  lift  the  fish  up  on  the  stern 
and  we  had  to  tow  him  over  to  Mr.  Jump's  boat 
and  there  haul  him  aboard  by  block  and  tackle. 
At  Avalon  he  weighed  three  hundred  and  twenty- 
eight  pounds. 

R.  C.  had  caught  the  biggest  Marlin  in  1916 — 
three  hundred  and  four  pounds,  and  this  three-hun- 
dred-and-twenty-eight-pound  fish  was  the  largest 
for  1918.  Besides,  there  was  the  remarkable  achieve- 
ment and  record  of  seven  swordfish  in  one  day,  with 
six  of  them  freed  to  live  and  roam  the  sea  again. 
But  R.  C.  was  not  impressed.  He  looked  at  his 
hands  and  said: 

"You  and  Dan  put  a  job  up  on  me.  .  .  .  Never 
again!" 


XII 


RANDOM  NOTES 

Avalon,  July  1,  1918. 

COOL,  foggy  morning;  calm  sea  up  until  one 
o'clock,  then  a  west  wind  that  roughened  the 
water  white.  No  strikes.  Did  not  see  a  fish. 
Trolled  with  kite  up  to  the  Isthmus  and  back.  When 
the  sun  came  out  its  warmth  was  very  pleasant. 
The  slopes  seemed  good  to  look  at — so  steep  and 
yellow-gray  with  green  spots,  and  long  slides  run- 
ning down  to  the  shore.  The  tips  of  the  hills  were 
lost  in  the  fog.  It  was  lonely  on  the  sea,  and  I  be- 
gan again  to  feel  the  splendor  and  comfort  of  the 
open  spaces,  the  free  winds,  the  canopy  of  gray  and 
blue,  the  tidings  from  afar. 

July  3d. 

Foggy  morning;  pale  line  of  silver  on  eastern 
horizon;  swell,  but  no  wind.  Warm.  After  a 
couple  of  hours  fog  disintegrated.  Saw  a  big  Marlin 
swordfish.  Worked  him  three  times,  then  charged 
him.    No  use! 

Gradually  rising  wind.  Ran  up  off  Long  Point 
and  back.  At  3:30  was  tired.  We  saw  a  school  of 
tuna  on  the  surface.  Flew  the  kite  over  them. 
One  big  fellow  came  clear  out  on  his  side  and  got 

216 


RANDOM  NOTES 


the  hook.  He  made  one  long  run,  then  came  in 
rather  easily.  Time,  fifteen  minutes.  He  was  bad- 
ly hooked.   Seventy-eight  pounds. 

We  trolled  then  until  late  afternoon.  I  saw  some 
splashes  far  out.  Tuna !  We  ran  up.  Found  patches 
of  anchovies.  I  had  a  strike.  Tuna  hooked  him- 
self and  got  off.  We  tried  again.  I  had  another 
come  clear  out  in  a  smashing  charge.  He  ran  off 
heavy  and  fast.  It  took  fifty  minutes  of  very  hard 
work  to  get  him  in.  He  weaved  back  of  the  boat 
for  half  an  hour  and  gave  me  a  severe  battle.  He 
was  hooked  in  the  corner  of  the  mouth  and  was  a 
game,  fine  fish.    Seventy-three  and  one-half  pounds. 

July  6th. 

Started  out  early.  Calm,  cool,  foggy  morning; 
rather  dark.  Sea  smooth,  swelling,  heaving.  Mys- 
terious, like  a  shadowed  opal.  Long  mounds  of 
water  waved  noiselessly,  wonderfully,  ethereally  from 
the  distance,  and  the  air  was  hazy,  veiled,  and  dim. 
A  lonely,  silent  vastness. 

We  saw  several  schools  of  tuna,  but  got  no  strikes. 
Worked  a  Marlin  swordfish,  but  he  would  not  notice 
the  bait. 

It  was  a  long,  hard  day  on  the  sea. 

July  10th. 

We  got  off  at  6 :30  before  the  other  boats.  Smooth 
water.  Little  breeze.  Saw  a  school  of  tuna  above 
Long  Point.  Put  up  the  kite.  The  school  went 
down.  But  R.  C.  got  a  little  strike.  Did  not  hook 
fish. 

Then  we  sighted  a  big  school  working  east.  We 
followed  it,  running  into  a  light  wind.    Kite  blew 

$17 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


O.  K.  and  R.  C.  got  one  fish  (seventy-one  pounds), 
then  another  (forty-eight  pounds).  They  put  up 
fair  fights. 

Then  I  tried  light  tackle.  All  the  time  the  school 
traveled  east,  going  down  and  coming  up.  The  first 
fish  that  charged  my  bait  came  clear  out  after  it. 
He  got  it  and  rushed  away.  I  had  the  light  drag 
on,  and  I  did  not  thumb  the  pad  hard,  but  the  tuna 
broke  the  line.  We  tried  again.  Had  another 
thrilling  strike.  The  fish  threw  the  hook.  We  had 
to  pull  in  the  kite,  put  up  another  one — get  it  out, 
and  all  the  time  keep  the  school  in  sight.  The  tuna 
traveled  fast.  The  third  try  on  light  tackle  resulted 
in  another  fine  strike,  and  another  tuna  that  broke 
the  line. 

Then  R.  C.  tried  the  heavy  tackle  again,  and  lost 
a  fish. 

When  my  turn  came  I  was  soon  fast  to  a  hard- 
fighting  fish,  but  he  did  not  stay  with  me  long. 
This  discouraged  me  greatly. 

Then  R.  C.  took  his  rod  once  more.  It  was 
thrilling  to  run  down  on  the  school  and  skip  a  flying- 
fish  before  the  leaders  as  they  rolled  along,  fins  out, 
silver  sides  showing,  raising  little  swells  and  leaving 
a  dark,  winkling,  dimpling  wake  behind  them. 
When  the  bait  got  just  right  a  larger  tuna  charged 
furiously,  throwing  up  a  great  splash.  He  hit  the 
bait,  and  threw  the  hook  before  R.  C.  could  strike 
hard. 

We  had  nine  bites  out  of  this  school.  Followed  it 
fifteen  miles.  Twice  we  were  worried  by  other 
boats,  but  for  the  rest  of  the  time  had  the  school 
alone. 

218 


RANDOM  NOTES 


July  11th. 

Morning  was  cold,  foggy,  raw.  East  wind.  Dis- 
agreeable. Trolled  out  about  six  miles  and  all 
around.  Finally  ran  in  off  east  end,  where  I  caught 
a  yellow-fin.  The  sun  came  up,  but  the  east  wind 
persisted.    No  fish.    Came  in  early. 

July  12th. 

Went  out  early.  Clear  morning.  Cool.  Rip- 
pling sea.  Fog  rolled  down  like  a  pale-gray  wall. 
Misty,  veiled,  vague,  strange,  opaque,  silent,  wet, 
cold,  heavy!  It  enveloped  us.  Then  we  went  out 
of  the  bank  into  a  great  circle,  clear  and  bright,  with 
heaving,  smooth  sea,  surrounded  by  fog. 

After  an  hour  or  two  the  fog  rose  and  drifted  away. 

We  trolled  nine  hours.  Three  little  fish  struck  at 
the  bait,  but  did  not  get  the  hook. 

August  6th. 

To-day  I  went  out  alone  with  Dan.  Wonderful 
sea.  Very  long,  wide,  deep,  heaving  swells,  beauti- 
ful and  exhilarating  to  watch.  No  wind.  Not  very 
foggy.  Sunshine  now  and  then.  I  watched  the 
sea — marveled  at  its  grace,  softness,  dimpled  dark 
beauty,  its  vast,  imponderable  racing,  its  restless 
heaving,  its  eternal  motion.  I  learned  from  it.  I 
found  loneliness,  peace. 

Saw  a  great  school  of  porpoises  coming.  Ran  tow- 
ard them.  About  five  hundred  all  crashing  in  and 
out  of  the  great  swells,  making  a  spectacle  of  rare  sea 
action  and  color  and  beauty.  They  surrounded  the 
bow  <~f  the  boat,  and  then  pandemonium  broke 
loose.    They  turned  to  play  with  us,  racing,  diving, 

219 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


leaping,  shooting — all  for  our  delight.  I  stood  right 
up  on  the  bow  and  could  see  deep.  It  was  an  un- 
forgetable  experience. 

August  7th. 

Long  run  to-day,  over  eighty  miles.  East  to 
Point  Vincent,  west  to  end  of  Catalina,  then  all 
around.  Fine  sea  and  weather.  Just  right  for  kite. 
Saw  many  ducks  and  a  great  number  of  big  sharks. 
The  ducks  were  traveling  west,  the  sharks  east. 
We  saw  no  tuna. 

Coming  back  the  wind  sprang  up  and  we  had  a 
following  sea.  It  was  fine  to  watch  the  green-and- 
white  rollers  breaking  behind  us. 

The  tuna  appear  to  be  working  farther  and  farther 
off  the  east  end.  Marlin  swordfish  have  showed  up 
off  the  east  end.  Three  caught  yesterday  and  one 
to-day.  I  have  not  yet  seen  a  broadbill,  and  fear 
none  are  coming  this  year. 

August  8th. 

Went  off  east  end.  Had  a  Marlin  strike.  The 
fish  missed  the  hook.  A  shark  took  the  bait.  When 
it  was  pulled  in  to  the  gaff  Captain  Dan  caught  the 
leader,  drew  the  shark  up,  and  it  savagely  bit  the 
boat.  Then  it  gave  a  flop  and  snapped  Captain 
Dan's  hand. 

I  was  frightened.  The  captain  yelled  for  me  to 
hit  the  shark  with  a  club.  I  did  not  lose  a  second. 
The  shark  let  go.  We  killed  it,  and  found  Dan's 
hand  badly  lacerated.  My  swiftness  of  action  saved 
Dan's  hand. 


XIII 


BIG  TUNA 

IT  took  me  five  seasons  at  Catalina  to  catch  a  big 
tuna,  and  the  event  was  so  thrilling  that  I  had  to 
write  to  my  fisherman  friends  about  it.  The  result  of 
my  effusions  seem  rather  dubious.  Robert  H.  Davis, 
editor  of  Munsey's,  replies  in  this  wise:  "If  you 
went  out  with  a  mosquito-net  to  catch  a  mess  of 
minnows  your  story  would  read  like  Roman  gladia- 
tors seining  the  Tigris  for  whales. "  Now,  I  am  at 
a  loss  to  know  how  to  take  that  compliment.  Davis 
goes  on  to  say  more,  and  he  also  quotes  me:  "You 
say  "the  hard,  diving  fight  of  a  tuna  liberates  the 
brute  instinct  in  a  man/  Well,  Zane,  it  also  liber- 
ates the  qualities  of  a  liar!"  Davis  does  not  love 
the  sweet,  soft  scent  that  breathes  from  off  the  sea. 
Once  on  the  Jersey  coast  I  went  tuna-fishing  with 
him.  He  was  not  happy  on  the  boat.  But  once  he 
came  up  out  of  the  cabin  with  a  jaunty  feather  in 
his  hat.    I  admired  it.    I  said: 

"Bob,  I'll  have  to  get  something  like  that  for  my 
hat." 

"Zane,"  he  replied,  piercingly,  "what  you  need 

for  your  hat  is  a  head!" 

My  friend  Joe  Bray,  who  publishes  books  in 

Chicago,  also  reacts  peculiarly  to  my  fish  stories. 

221 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


He  writes  me  a  satiric,  doubting  letter — then  shuts 
up  his  office  and  rushes  for  some  river  or  lake. 
Will  Dilg,  the  famous  fly-caster,  upon  receipt  of  my 
communication,  wrote  me  a  nine-page  prose-poem 
epic  about  the  only  fish  in  the  world — black-bass. 
Professor  Kellogg  always  falls  ill  and  takes  a  vaca- 
tion, during  which  he  writes  me  that  I  have  not 
mental  capacity  to  appreciate  my  luck. 

These  fellows  will  illustrate  how  my  friends  re- 
ceive angling  news  from  me.  I  ought  to  have  sense 
enough  to  keep  my  stories  for  publication.  I  strong- 
ly suspect  that  their  strange  reaction  to  my  friendly 
feeling  is  because  I  have  caught  more  and  larger 
black -bass  than  they  ever  saw.  Some  day  I 
will  go  back  to  the  swift  streams  and  deep  lakes, 
where  the  bronze -backs  live,  and  fish  with  my 
friends,  and  then  they  will  realize  that  I  never 
lie  about  the  sport  and  beauty  and  wonder  of  the 
great  outdoors. 

Every  season  for  the  five  years  that  I  have  been 
visiting  Avalon  there  has  been  a  run  of  tuna.  But 
the  average  weight  was  from  sixty  to  ninety-five 
pounds.  Until  this  season  only  a  very  few  big  tuna 
had  been  taken.  The  prestige  of  the  Tuna  Club, 
the  bragging  of  the  old  members,  the  gossip  of  the 
boatmen — all  tend  to  make  a  fisherman  feel  small 
until  he  has  landed  a  big  one.  Come  to  think  of 
it,  considering  the  years  of  the  Tuna  Club  fame,  not 
so  very  many  anglers  have  captured  a  blue-button 
tuna.  I  vowed  I  did  not  care  in  particular  about 
it,  but  whenever  we  ran  across  a  school  of  tuna  I 
acted  like  a  boy. 

A  good  many  tuna  fell  to  my  rod  during  these 

222 


BIG  TUNA 


seasons.  During  the  present  season,  to  be  exact,  I 
caught  twenty-two.  This  is  no  large  number  for 
two  months'  fishing.  Boschen  caught  about  one 
hundred;  Jump,  eighty-four;  Hooper,  sixty.  Among 
these  tuna  I  fought  were  three  that  stand  out 
strikingly.  One  seventy-three-pounder  took  fifty 
minutes  of  hard  fighting  to  subdue;  a  ninety-one- 
pounder  took  one  hour  fifty;  and  the  third,  after 
two  hours  and  fifty  minutes,  got  away.  It  seems, 
and  was  proved  later,  that  the  number  fifty  figured 
every  time  I  hooked  one  of  the  long,  slim,  hard- 
fighting  male  tuna. 

Beginning  late  in  June,  for  six  weeks  tuna  were 
caught  almost  every  day,  some  days  a  large  number 
being  taken.  But  big  ones  were  scarce.  Then  one 
of  the  Tuna  Club  anglers  began  to  bring  in  tuna 
that  weighed  well  over  one  hundred  pounds.  This 
fact  inspired  all  the  anglers.  He  would  slip  out 
early  in  the  morning  and  return  late  at  night.  No- 
body knew  where  his  boatman  was  finding  these 
fish.  More  than  one  boatman  tried  to  follow  him, 
but  in  vain.  Quite  by  accident  it  was  discovered 
that  he  ran  up  on  the  north  side  of  the  island,  clear 
round  the  west  end.  When  he  was  discovered  on 
the  west  side  he  at  once  steered  toward  Clemente 
Island,  evidently  hoping  to  mislead  his  followers. 
This  might  have  succeeded  but  for  the  fact  that 
both  Bandini  and  Adams  hooked  big  tuna  before 
they  had  gone  a  mile.  Then  the  jig  was  up.  That 
night  Adams  came  in  with  a  one-hundred-and- 
twenty-  and  a  one-hundred-and-thirty-six-pound 
tuna,  and  Bandini  brought  the  record  for  this  season 
— one  hundred  and  forty-nine  pounds. 

223 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


Next  day  we  were  all  out  there  on  the  west  side, 
a  few  miles  offshore.  The  ocean  appeared  to  be  full 
of  blackfish.  They  are  huge,  black  marine  creatures, 
similar  to  a  porpoise  in  movement,  but  many  times 
larger,  and  they  have  round,  blunt  noses  that  look 
like  battering-rams.  Some  seemed  as  big  as  gun- 
boats, and  when  they  heaved  up  on  the  swells  we 
could  see  the  white  stripes  below  the  black.  I  was 
inclined  to  the  belief  that  this  species  was  the  orca, 
a  whale-killing  fish.  Boatmen  and  deep-sea  men  re- 
port these  blackfish  to  be  dangerous  and  had  better 
be  left  alone.  They  certainly  looked  ugly.  We  be- 
lieved they  were  chasing  tuna. 

The  channel  that  day  contained  more  whales 
than  I  ever  saw  before  at  one  time.  We  counted  six 
pairs  in  sight.  I  saw  as  many  as  four  of  the  funnel- 
like whale  spouts  of  water  on  the  horizon  at  once. 
It  was  very  interesting  to  watch  these  monsters  of 
the  deep.  Once  when  we  were  all  on  top  of  the 
boat  we  ran  almost  right  upon  two  whales.  The 
first  spouted  about  fifty  feet  away.  The  sea  seemed 
to  open  up,  a  terrible  roar  issued  forth,  then  came 
a  cloud  of  spray  and  rush  of  water.  Then  we  saw 
another  whale  just  rising  a  few  yards  ahead.  My 
hair  stood  up  stiff.  Captain  Dan  yelled,  leaped 
down  to  reverse  the  engine.  The  whale  saw  us  and 
swerved.  Dan's  action  and  the  quickness  of  the 
whale  prevented  a  collision.  As  it  was,  I  looked 
down  in  the  clear  water  and  saw  the  huge,  gleaming, 
gray  body  of  the  whale  as  he  passed.  That  was 
another  sight  to  record  in  the  book  of  memory. 
The  great  flukes  of  his  tail  moved  with  surprising 
swiftness  and  the  water  bulged  on  the  surface.  Then 

224 


BIG  TUNA 


we  ran  close  to  the  neighborhood  of  a  school  of 
whales,  evidently  feeding.  They  would  come  up 
and  blow,  and  then  sound.  To  see  a  whale  sound 
and  then  raise  his  great,  broad,  shining  flukes  in  the 
air,  high  above  the  water,  is  in  my  opinion  the  most 
beautiful  spectacle  to  be  encountered  upon  the 
ocean.  Up  to  this  day,  during  five  seasons,  I  had 
seen  three  whales  sound  with  tails  in  the  air.  And 
upon  this  occasion  I  had  the  exceeding  good  fortune 
to  see  seven.  I  tried  to  photograph  one.  We  fol- 
lowed a  big  bull.  When  he  came  up  to  blow  we  saw 
a  yellow  moving  space  on  the  water,  then  a  round, 
gray,  glistening  surface,  then  a  rugged  snout.  Puff! 
His  blow  was  a  roar.  He  rolled  on,  downward  a 
little;  the  water  surged  white  and  green.  When 
he  came  up  to  sound  he  humped  his  huge  back.  It 
was  shiny,  leathery,  wonderfully  supple.  It  bent 
higher  and  higher  in  an  arch.  Then  this  great  curve 
seemed  to  slide  swiftly  out  of  sight  and  his  wonder- 
ful tail,  flat  as  a  floor  and  wide  as  a  house,  emerged 
to  swing  aloft.  The  water  ran  off  it  in  sheets.  Then 
it  waved  higher,  and  with  slow,  graceful,  ponderous 
motion  sank  into  the  sea.  That  sight  more  than 
anything  impressed  me  with  the  immensity  of  the 
ocean,  with  its  mystery  of  life,  with  the  unattainable 
secrets  of  the  deep. 

The  tuna  appeared  to  be  scattered,  and  none  were 
on  the  surface.  I  had  one  strike  that  plowed  up 
the  sea,  showing  the  difference  between  the  strike 
of  a  big  tuna  and  that  of  a  little  one.  He  broke  my 
line  on  the  first  rush.  Then  I  hooked  another  and 
managed  to  stop  him.  I  had  a  grueling  battle  with 
him,  and  at  the  end  of  two  hours  and  fifty  minutes 

15  225 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


he  broke  my  hook.  This  was  a  disappointment  far 
beyond  reason,  but  I  could  not  help  it. 

Next  day  was  windy.  The  one  following  we  could 
not  find  the  fish,  and  the  third  day  we  all  concluded 
they  had  gone  for  1918.  I  think  the  fame  of  tuna, 
the  uncertainty  of  their  appearance,  the  difficulty 
of  capturing  a  big  one,  are  what  excite  the  am- 
bition of  anglers.  Long  effort  to  that  end,  and  con- 
sequent thinking  and  planning  and  feeling,  bring 
about  a  condition  of  mind  that  will  be  made  clear 
as  this  story  progresses. 

But  Captain  Danielson  did  not  give  up.  The 
fifth  day  we  ran  off  the  west  side  with  several  other 
boats,  and  roamed  the  sea  in  search  of  fins.  No 
anchovies  on  the  surface,  no  sheerwater  ducks,  no 
sharks,  nothing  to  indicate  tuna.  About  one  o'clock 
Captain  Dan  sheered  southwest  and  we  ran  sixteen 
miles  toward  Clemente  Island. 

It  was  a  perfect  day,  warm,  hazy,  with  light  fog, 
smooth,  heaving,  opalescent  sea.  There  was  no 
wind.  At  two  thirty  not  one  of  the  other  boats  was 
in  sight.  At  two  forty  Captain  Dan  sighted  a  large, 
dark,  rippling  patch  on  the  water.   We  ran  over  closer. 

"School  of  tuna!"  exclaimed  the  captain,  with 
excitement.  "Big  fish!  Oh,  for  some  wind  now 
to  fly  the  kite!" 

"There's  another  school,"  said  my  brother,  R. 
C,  and  he  pointed  to  a  second  darkly  gleaming  spot 
on  the  smooth  sea. 

"I've  spotted  one,  too!"  I  shouted. 

"The  ocean's  alive  with  tuna — big  tuna!"  boomed 
Captain  Dan.  "Here  we  are  alone,  blue-button  fish 
everywhere — and  no  wind." 

226 


BIG  TUNA 


"  We'll  watch  the  fish  and  wait  for  wind,"  I  said. 

This  situation  may  not  present  anything  remark- 
able to  most  fishermen.  But  we  who  knew  the  game 
realized  at  once  that  this  was  an  experience  of  a  life- 
time. We  counted  ten  schools  of  tuna  near  at  hand, 
and  there  were  so  many  farther  on  that  they  seemed 
to  cover  the  sea. 

"Boys,"  said  Captain  Dan,  "here's  the  tuna  we 
heard  were  at  Anacapa  Island  last  week.  The  Japs 
netted  hundreds  of  tons.  They're  working  southeast, 
right  in  the  middle  of  the  channel,  and  haven't 
been  inshore  at  all.  It's  ninety  miles  to  Anacapa. 
Some  traveling!  .  .  .  That  school  close  to  us  is  the 
biggest  school  I  ever  saw  and  I  believe  they're  the 
biggest  fish." 

"Run  closer  to  them,"  I  said  to  him. 

We  ran  over  within  fifty  feet  of  the  edge  of  the 
school,  stopped  the  boat,  and  all  climbed  up  on  top 
of  the  deck. 

Then  we  beheld  a  spectacle  calculated  to  thrill 
the  most  phlegmatic  fisherman.  It  simply  enrapt- 
ured me,  and  I  think  I  am  still  too  close  to  it  to 
describe  it  well.  The  dark-blue  water,  heaving  in 
great,  low,  lazy  swells,  showed  a  roughened  spot  of 
perhaps  two  acres  in  extent.  The  sun,  shining  over 
our  shoulders,  caught  silvery-green  gleams  of  fish, 
flashing  wide  and  changing  to  blue.  Long,  round, 
bronze  backs  deep  under  the  surface,  caught  the  sun- 
light. Blue  fins  and  tails,  sharp  and  curved,  like 
sabers,  cleared  the  water.  Here  a  huge  tuna  would 
turn  on  his  side,  gleaming  broad  and  bright,  and 
there  another  would  roll  on  the  surface,  breaking 
water  like  a  tarpon  with  a  slow,  heavy  souse. 

227 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


"Look  at  the  leaders,"  said  Captain  Dan.  "I'll 
bet  they're  three-hundred-pound  fish." 

I  saw  then  that  the  school,  lazy  as  they  seemed, 
were  slowly  following  the  leaders,  rolling  and  riding 
the  swells.  These  leaders  threw  up  surges  and 
ridges  on  the  surface.    They  plowed  the  water. 

"What  'd  happen  if  we  skipped  a  flying-fish 
across  the  water  in  front  of  those  leaders?"  I  asked 
Captain  Dan. 

He  threw  up  his  hands.  "You'd  see  a  German 
torpedo  explode." 

"Say!  tuna  are  no  relation  to  Huns!"  put  in  my 
brother. 

It  took  only  a  few  moments  for  the  school  to  drift 
by  us.  Then  we  ran  over  to  another  school,  with 
the  same  experience.  In  this  way  we  visited  several 
of  these  near-by  schools,  all  of  which  were  com- 
posed of  large  tuna.  Captain  Dan,  however,  said 
he  believed  the  first  two  schools,  evidently  leaders 
of  this  vast  sea  of  tuna,  contained  the  largest  fish. 
For  half  an  hour  we  fooled  around,  watching  the 
schools  and  praying  for  wind  to  fly  the  kite.  Cap- 
tain Dan  finally  trolled  our  baits  through  one  school, 
which  sank  without  rewarding  us  with  a  strike. 

At  this  juncture  I  saw  a  tiny  speck  of  a  boat  way 
out  on  the  horizon.  Captain  Dan  said  it  was 
Shorty's  boat  with  Adams.  I  suggested  that,  as  we 
had  to  wait  for  wind  to  fly  the  kite,  we  run  in  and 
attract  Shorty's  attention.  I  certainly  wanted 
some  one  else  to  see  those  magnificent  schools  of 
tuna.  Forthwith  we  ran  in  several  miles  until  we 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  boatman  Captain  Dan 
had  taken  to  be  Shorty.    But  it  turned  out  to  be 

228 


BIG  TUNA 


somebody  else,  and  my  good  intentions  also  turned 
out  to  my  misfortune. 

Then  we  ran  back  toward  the  schools  of  tuna. 
On  the  way  my  brother  hooked  a  Marlin  swordfish 
that  leaped  thirty-five  times  and  got  away.  After 
all  those  leaps  he  deserved  to  shake  the  hook.  We 
found  the  tuna  milling  and  lolling  around,  slowly 
drifting  and  heading  toward  the  southeast.  We 
also  found  a  very  light  breeze  had  begun  to  come 
out  of  the  west.  Captain  Dan  wanted  to  try  to 
get  the  kite  up,  but  I  objected  on  the  score  that  if 
we  could  fly  it  at  all  it  would  only  be  to  drag  a  bait 
behind  the  boat.  That  would  necessitate  running 
through  the  schools  of  tuna,  and  as  I  believed  this 
would  put  them  down,  I  wanted  to  wait  for  enough 
wind  to  drag  a  bait  at  right  angles  with  the  boat. 
This  is  the  proper  procedure,  because  it  enables  an 
angler  to  place  his  bait  over  a  school  of  tuna  at  a 
hundred  yards  or  more  from  the  boat.  It  certainly 
is  the  most  beautiful  and  thrilling  way  to  get  a 
strike. 

So  we  waited.  The  boatman  whose  attention  we 
had  attracted  had  now  come  up  and  was  approach- 
ing the  schools  of  tuna  some  distance  below  us. 
He  put  out  a  kite  that  just  barely  flew  off  the  water 
and  it  followed  directly  in  the  wake  of  his  boat. 
We  watched  this  with  disgust,  but  considerable  in- 
terest, and  we  were  amazed  to  see  one  of  the  anglers 
in  that  boat  get  a  strike  and  hook  a  fish. 

That  put  us  all  in  a  blaze  of  excitement.  Still  we 
thought  the  strike  they  got  might  just  have  been 
lucky.  In  running  down  farther,  so  we  could  come 
back  against  the  light  breeze,  we  ran  pretty  close 

229 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


to  the  school  out  of  which  the  strike  had  been  gotten. 
Captain  Dan  stood  up  to  take  a  good  look. 

"They're  hundred-pounders,  all  right,"  he  said. 
"But  they're  not  as  big  as  the  tuna  in  those  two 
leading  schools.  I'm  glad  those  ginks  in  that  boat 
are  tied  up  with  a  tuna  for  a  spell." 

I  took  a  look  at  the  fisherman  who  was  fighting 
the  tuna.  Certainly  I  did  not  begrudge  him  one, 
but  somehow,  so  strange  are  the  feelings  of  a  fisher- 
man that  I  was  mightily  pleased  to  see  that  he  was 
a  novice  at  the  game,  was  having  his  troubles,  and 
would  no  doubt  be  a  long,  long  time  landing  his 
tuna.  My  blood  ran  cold  at  the  thought  of  other 
anglers  appearing  on  the  scene,  and  anxiously  I 
scanned  the  horizon.  No  boat  in  sight!  If  I  had 
only  known  then  what  sad  experience  taught  me  that 
afternoon  I  would  have  been  tickled  to  pieces  to  see 
all  the  great  fishermen  of  Avalon  tackle  this  school 
of  big  tuna. 

Captain  Dan  got  a  kite  up  a  little  better  than  I 
had  hoped  for.  It  was  not  good,  but  it  was  worth 
trying.  My  bait,  even  on  a  turn  of  the  boat,  skipped 
along  just  at  the  edge  of  the  wake  of  the  boat. 
And  the  wake  of  a  boat  will  almost  always  put  a 
school  of  tuna  down. 

We  headed  for  the  second  school.  My  thrilling 
expectancy  was  tinged  and  spoiled  with  doubt.  I 
skipped  my  bait  in  imitation  of  a  flying-fish  leaping 
and  splashing  along.  We  reached  the  outer  edge 
of  the  school.  Slowly  the  little  boils  smoothed  out. 
Slowly  the  big  fins  sank.  So  did  my  heart.  We 
passed  the  school.  They  all  sank.  And  then  when 
Captain  Dan  swore  and  I  gave  up  there  came  a 

230 


BIG  TUNA 


great  splash  back  of  my  bait.  I  yelled  and  my 
comrades  echoed  me.  The  tuna  missed.  I  skipped 
the  bait.  A  sousing  splash — and  another  tuna  had 
my  bait.  My  line  sagged.  I  jerked  hard.  But 
.too  late!  The  tuna  threw  the  hook  before  it  got 
a  hold. 

"They're  hungry!'5  exclaimed  Dan.  "Hurry — 
reel  the  kite  in.  We'll  get  another  bait  on  quick. 
.  .  .  Look!  that  school  is  coming  up  again!  They're 
not  shy  of  boats.    Boys,  there's  something  doing." 

Captain  Dan's  excitement  augmented  my  own. 
I  sensed  an  unusual  experience  that  had  never  be- 
fore befallen  me. 

The  school  of  largest  fish  was  farther  to  the  west. 
The  breeze  lulled.  We  could  not  fly  the  kite  ex- 
cept with  the  motion  and  direction  of  the  boat. 
It  was  exasperating.  When  we  got  close  the  kite 
flopped  down  into  the  water.  Captain  Dan  used 
language.  We  ran  back,  picked  up  the  kite.  It 
was  soaked,  of  course,  and  would  not  fly.  While 
Dan  got  out  a  new  kite,  a  large  silk  one  which  we 
had  not  tried  yet,  we  ran  down  to  the  eastward  of 
the  second  school.  To  our  surprise  and  delight  this 
untried  kite  flew  well  without  almost  any  wind. 

We  got  in  position  and  headed  for  the  school. 
I  was  using  a  big  hook  half  embedded  near  the  tail 
of  the  flying-fish  and  the  leader  ran  through  the 
bait.  It  worked  beautifully.  A  little  jerk  of  my 
rod  sent  the  bait  skittering  over  the  water,  for  all 
the  world  like  a  live  flying-fish.  I  knew  now  that 
I  would  get  another  strike.  Just  as  we  reached  a 
point  almost  opposite  the  school  of  tuna  they 
headed  across  our  bow,  so  that  it  seemed  inevitable 

231 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


we  must  either  run  them  down  or  run  too  close. 
My  spirit  sank  to  zero.  Something  presaged  bad 
luck.  I  sensed  disaster.  I  fought  the  feeling,  but 
it  persisted.  Captain  Dan  swore.  My  brother 
shouted  warnings  from  over  us  where  he  sat  on  top. 
But  we  ran  right  into  the  leaders.  The  school  sank. 
I  was  sick  and  furious. 

"Jump  your  bait!    It's  not  too  late/'  called  Dan. 

I  did  so.  Smash!  The  water  seemed  to  curl 
white  and  smoke.  A  tuna  had  my  bait.  I  jerked. 
I  felt  him.  He  threw  the  hook.  Half  the  bait  re- 
mained upon  it.  Smash!  A  great  boil  and  splash! 
Another  tuna  had  that.  I  tried  to  jerk.  But  both 
kite  and  tuna  pulling  made  my  effort  feeble.  This 
one  also  threw  out  the  hook.  It  came  out  with  a 
small  piece  of  mangled  red  flying-fish  still  hanging 
to  it.  Instinctively  I  jumped  that  remains  of  my 
bait  over  the  surface.  Smash!  The  third  tuna 
cleaned  the  hook. 

Captain  Dan  waxed  eloquent  and  profane. 

My  brother  said,  "What  do  you  know  about  that?" 

As  for  myself,  I  was  stunned  one  second  and 
dazzled  the  next.  Three  strikes  on  one  bait!  It 
seemed  disaster  still  clogged  my  mind,  but  what 
had  already  happened  was  new  and  wonderful. 
Half  a  mile  below  us  I  saw  the  angler  still  fighting 
the  tuna  he  had  hooked.  I  wanted  him  to  get  it, 
but  I  hoped  he  would  be  all  afternoon  on  the  job. 

"Hurry,  Cap!"  was  all  I  said. 

Ordinarily  Dan  is  the  swiftest  of  boatmen.  To- 
day he  was  slower  than  molasses  and  all  he  did  went 
wrong.  What  he  said  about  the  luck  was  more  than 
melancholy.    I  had  no  way  to  gauge  my  own  feel- 

232 


BIG  TUNA 


ings  because  I  had  never  had  such  an  experience 
before.  Nor  had  I  ever  heard  or  read  of  any  one 
having  it. 

We  got  a  bait  on  and  the  kite  out  just  in  time  to 
reach  the  first  and  larger  school.  I  was  so  excited 
that  I  did  not  see  we  were  heading  right  into  it. 
My  intent  gaze  was  riveted  upon  my  bait  as  it 
skimmed  the  surface.  The  swells  were  long,  low, 
smooth  mounds.  My  bait  went  out  of  sight  behind 
one.  It  was  then  I  saw  water  fly  high  and  I 
felt  a  tug.  I  jerked  so  hard  I  nearly  fell  over.  My 
bait  shot  over  the  top  of  the  swell.  Then  that  swell 
opened  and  burst — a  bronze  back  appeared.  He 
missed  the  hook.  Another  tuna,  also  missing, 
leaped  into  the  air — a  fish  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  glittering  green  and  silver  and  blue,  jaws 
open,  fins  stiff,  tail  quivering,  clear  and  clean-cut 
above  the  surface.  Again  we  all  yelled.  Actually 
before  he  fell  there  was  another  smash  and  another 
tuna  had  my  bait.  This  one  I  hooked.  His  rush 
was  irresistible.  I  released  the  drag  on  the  reel. 
It  whirled  and  whizzed.  The  line  threw  a  fine  spray 
into  my  face.  Then  the  tip  of  my  rod  flew  up  with 
a  jerk,  the  line  slacked.  We  all  knew  what  that 
meant.  I  reeled  in.  The  line  had  broken  above  the 
few  feet  of  double  line  which  we  always  used  next 
the  leader.  More  than  ever  disaster  loomed  over 
me.    The  feeling  was  unshakable  now. 

Nevertheless,  I  realized  that  wonderful  good  fort- 
une attended  us  in  the  fact  that  the  school  of  big 
tuna  had  scarcely  any  noticeable  fear  of  the  boat; 
they  would  not  stay  down,  and  they  were  ravenous. 

On  our  next  run  down  upon  them  I  had  a  smashing 

233 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


strike.  The  tuna  threw  the  hook.  Another  got 
the  bait  and  I  hooked  him.  He  sounded.  The  line 
broke.  We  tried  again.  No  sooner  had  we  reached 
the  school  when  the  water  boiled  and  foamed  at 
my  bait.  Before  I  could  move  that  tuna  cleaned 
the  hook.  Our  next  attempt  gained  another  sous- 
ing strike.  But  he  was  so  swift  and  I  was  so  slow 
that  I  could  not  fasten  to  him. 

"He  went  away  from  here,5'  my  brother  said,  with 
what  he  meant  for  comedy.    But  it  was  not  funny. 

Captain  Dan  then  put  on  a  double  hook,  embed- 
ding it  so  one  hook  stood  clear  of  the  bait.  We 
tested  my  line  with  the  scales  and  it  broke  at  fifty- 
three  pounds,  which  meant  it  was  a  good  strong 
line.  The  breeze  lulled  and  fanned  at  intervals. 
It  seemed,  however,  we  did  not  need  any  breeze. 
We  had  edged  our  school  of  big  tuna  away  from  the 
other  schools,  and  it  was  milling  on  the  surface, 
lazily  and  indifferently.  But  what  latent  speed  and 
power  lay  hidden  in  that  mass  of  lolling  tuna. 

R.  C.  from  his  perch  above  yelled:  "Look  out! 
You're  going  to  drag  your  bait  in  front  of  the  leaders 
this  time!" 

That  had  not  happened  yet.  I  glowed  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  I  was  steeped  in  gloom.  We  were 
indeed  heading  most  favorably  for  the  leaders. 
Captain  Dan  groaned.  "Never  seen  the  like  of 
this!"  he  added.  These  leaders  were  several  yards 
apart,  as  could  be  told  by  the  blunt-nosed  ridges  of 
water  they  shoved  ahead  of  them.  That  was  another 
moment  added  to  the  memorable  moments  of  my 
fishing  years.  It  was  strained  suspense.  Hope 
would  not  die,  but  disaster  loomed  like  a  shadow. 

234 


BIG  TUNA 


Before  I  was  ready,  before  we  expected  anything, 
before  we  got  near  these  leaders,  a  brilliant,  hissing, 
white  splash  burst  out  of  the  sea,  and  a  tuna  of  mag- 
nificent proportions  shot  broadside  along  and  above 
the  surface,  sending  the  spray  aloft,  and  he  hit  that 
bait  with  incredible  swiftness,  raising  a  twenty-foot- 
square,  furious  splash  as  he  hooked  himself.  I  sat 
spellbound.  I  heard  my  line  whistling  off  the  reel. 
But  I  saw  only  that  swift-descending  kite.  So  swift- 
ly did  the  tuna  sound  that  the  kite  shot  down  as  if 
it  had  been  dropping  lead.  My  line  broke  and  my 
rod  almost  leaped  out  of  my  hands. 

We  were  all  silent  a  moment.  The  school  of  tuna 
showed  again,  puttering  and  fiddling  around,  with 
great  blue-and-green  flashes  caught  by  the  sun. 

"That  one  weighed  about  two  hundred  and  fifty," 
was  all  Captain  Dan  said. 

R.  C.  remarked  facetiously,  evidently  to  cheer  me, 
"  Jakey,  you  picks  de  shots  out  of  that  plue  jay  an' 
we  makes  ready  for  anudder  one!" 

"Say,  do  you  imagine  you  can  make  me  laugh!" 
I  asked,  in  tragic  scorn. 

"Well,  if  you  could  have  seen  yourself  when  that 
tuna  struck  you'd  have  laughed,"  replied  he. 

While  Dan  steered  the  boat  R.  C.  got  out  on  the 
bow  and  gaffed  the  kite.  I  watched  the  tuna  tails 
standing  like  half -simitars  out  of  the  smooth,  colored 
water.  The  sun  was  setting  in  a  golden  haze 
spotted  by  pink  clouds.  The  wind,  if  anything,  was 
softer  than  ever;  in  fact,  we  could  not  feel  it  unless 
we  headed  the  boat  into  it.  The  fellow  below  us  was 
drifting  off  farther,  still  plugging  at  his  tuna. 

Captain  Dan  put  the  wet  kite  on  the  deck  to  dry 

235 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


and  got  out  another  silk  one.  It  soared  aloft  so 
easily  that  I  imagined  our  luck  was  changing.  Vain 
fisherman's  delusion!  Nothing  could  do  that.  There 
were  thousands  of  tons — actually  thousands  of  tons 
of  tuna  in  that  three-mile  stretch  of  ruffled  water, 
but  I  could  not  catch  one.  It  was  a  settled  convic- 
tion. I  was  reminded  of  what  Enos,  the  Portuguese 
boatman,  complained  to  an  angler  he  had  out,  "You 
mos'  unluck'  fisherman  I  ever  see!" 

We  tried  a  shorter  kite-line  and  a  shorter  length 
of  my  line,  and  we  ran  down  upon  that  mess  of  tuna 
once  more.  It  was  strange — and  foolish — how  we 
stuck  to  that  school  of  biggest  fish.  This  time  Dan 
headed  right  into  the  thick  of  them.  Out  of  the 
corners  of  my  eyes  I  seemed  to  see  tuna  settling  down 
all  around.    Suddenly  my  brother  yelled. 

Zam!  That  was  a  huge  loud  splash  back  of  my 
bait.  The  tuna  missed.  R.  C.  yelled  again.  Cap- 
tain Dan  followed  suit: 

"He's  after  it!  .  .  .  Oh,  he's  the  biggest  yet!" 

Then  I  saw  a  huge  tuna  wallowing  in  a  surge 
round  my  bait.  He  heaved  up,  round  and  big  as 
a  barrel,  flashing  a  wide  bar  of  blue-green,  and  he 
got  the  hook.  If  he  had  been  strangely  slow  he 
was  now  unbelievably  swift.  His  size  gave  me 
panic.  I  never  moved,  and  he  hooked  himself. 
Straight  down  he  shot  and  the  line  broke. 

My  brother's  sympathy  now  was  as  sincere  as 
Captain  Dan's  misery.  I  asked  R.  C.  to  take  the 
rod  and  see  if  he  could  do  better. 

"Not  much!"  he  replied.  "When  you  get  one, 
then  I'll  try.    Stay  with  'em,  now!" 

Not  improbably  I  would  have  stayed  out  until 

236 


BIG  TUNA 


the  tuna  quit  if  that  had  taken  all  night.  Three 
more  times  we  put  up  the  kite — three  more  flying- 
fish  we  wired  on  the  double  hooks — three  more  runs 
we  made  through  that  tantalizing  school  of  tuna 
that  grew  huger  and  swifter  and  more  impossible 
— three  more  smashing  wide  breaks  of  water  on  the 
strike — and  quicker  than  a  flash  three  more  broken 
lines ! 

I  imagined  I  was  resigned.  My  words  to  my  silent 
comrades  were  even  cheerful. 

"  Come  on.  Try  again.  Where  there's  life  there's 
hope.  It's  an  exceedingly  rare  experience — any- 
way. After  all,  nothing  depends  upon  my  catching 
one  of  these  tuna.    It  doesn't  matter." 

All  of  which  attested  to  the  singular  state  of  my 
mind. 

Another  kite,  another  leader  and  double  hook, 
another  bait  had  to  be  arranged.  This  took  time. 
My  impatience,  my  nervousness  were  hard  to  restrain. 
Captain  Dan  was  pale  and  grim.  I  do  not  know  how 
I  looked.    Only  R.  C.  no  longer  looked  at  me. 

As  we  put  out  the  bait  we  made  the  discovery 
that  the  other  anglers,  no  doubt  having  ended  their 
fight,  were  running  down  upon  our  particular  school 
of  tuna.  This  was  in  line  with  our  luck.  Other 
schools  of  tuna  were  in  sight,  but  these  fellows  had 
to  head  for  ours.  It  galled  me  when  I  thought  how 
sportsman-like  I  had  been  to  attract  their  attention. 
We  aimed  to  head  them  off  and  reach  the  school 
first.  As  we  were  the  closest  all  augured  well  for 
our  success.  But  gloom  invested  whatever  hopes 
I  had. 

We  beat  the  other  boat.    We  had  just  gotten  our 

237 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


boat  opposite  the  school  of  tuna  when  Dan  yelled: 
"Look  out  for  that  bunch  of  kelp!  Jump  your 
bait  over  it!" 

Then  I  spied  the  mass  of  floating  seaweed.  I  knew 
absolutely  that  my  hook  was  going  to  snag  it.  But 
I  tried  to  be  careful,  quick,  accurate.  I  jumped 
my  bait.  It  fell  short.  The  hook  caught  fast  in 
the  kelp.  In  the  last  piece!  The  kite  fluttered  like 
a  bird  with  broken  wings  and  dropped.  Captain 
Dan  reversed  the  boat.  Then  he  burst  out.  Now 
Dan  was  a  big  man  and  he  had  a  stentorian  voice, 
deep  like  booming  thunder.  No  man  ever  swore  as 
Dan  swore  then.  It  was  terrible.  It  was  justified. 
But  it  was  funny,  and  despite  all  this  agony  of  disap- 
pointment, despite  the  other  boat  heading  into  the 
tuna  and  putting  them  down,  I  laughed  till  I  cried. 

The  fishermen  in  that  other  boat  hooked  a  fish 
and  broke  it  off.  We  saw  from  the  excitement  on 
board  that  they  had  realized  the  enormous  size  of 
these  tuna.  We  hurried  to  get  ready  again.  It 
was  only  needful  to  drag  a  bait  anywhere  near 
that  school.  And  we  alternated  with  the  other  boat. 
I  saw  those  fishermen  get  four  more  strikes  and  lose 
the  four  fish  immediately.  I  had  even  worse  luck. 
In  fact,  disaster  grew  and  grew.  But  there  is  no 
need  for  me  to  multiply  these  instances.  The  last 
three  tunas  I  hooked  broke  the  double  line  on  the 
first  run.    This  when  I  had  on  only  a  slight  drag! 

The  other  boat  puddled  around  in  our  school  and 
finally  put  it  down  for  good,  and,  as  the  other  schools 
had  disappeared,  we  started  for  home. 

This  was  the  most  remarkable  and  unfortunate 
day  I  ever  had  on  the  sea,  where  many  strange  fish- 

238 


BIG  TUNA 


ing  experiences  have  been  mine.  Captain  Dan  had 
never  heard  of  the  like  in  eighteen  years  as  boatman. 
No  such  large-sized  tuna,  not  to  mention  numbers, 
had  visited  Catalina  for  many  years.  I  had  thirteen 
strikes,  not  counting  more  than  one  strike  to  a  bait. 
Seven  fish  broke  the  single  line  and  three  the  double 
line,  practically,  I  might  say,  before  they  had  run 
far  enough  to  cause  any  great  strain.  And  the  part- 
ing of  the  double  line,  where,  if  a  break  had  occurred, 
it  would  have  come  on  the  single,  convinced  us  that 
all  these  lines  were  cut.  Cut  by  other  tuna!  In 
this  huge  school  of  hungry  fish,  whenever  one  ran 
for  or  with  a  bait,  all  the  others  dove  pellmell  after 
him.  The  line,  of  course,  made  a  white  streak  in 
the  water.  Perhaps  the  tuna  bit  it  off.  Perhaps 
they  crowded  it  off.  However  they  did  it,  the  fact 
was  that  they  cut  the  line.  Probably  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  catch  one  of  those  large  tuna  on 
the  Tuna  Club  tackle.  I  hated  to  think  of  break- 
ing off  hooks  in  fish,  but,  after  it  was  too  late,  I  re- 
membered with  many  a  thrill  the  size  and  beauty 
and  tremendous  striking  energy  of  those  tuna,  the 
wide,  white,  foamy,  furious  boils  on  the  surface,  the 
lunges  when  hooked,  and  the  runs  swift  as  bullets. 

That  experience  would  never  come  to  me  again. 
It  was  like  watching  for  the  rare  transformations  of 
nature  that  must  be  waited  for  and  which  come  so 
seldom. 

But,  such  is  the  persistence  of  mankind  in  general 
and  the  doggedness  of  fishermen  in  particular,  Cap- 
tain Dan  and  I  kept  on  roaming  the  seas  in  search 
of  tuna.    Nothing  more  was  seen  or  heard  of  the 

239 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


great  drifting  schools.  They  had  gone  down  the 
channel  toward  Mexico,  down  with  the  mysterious 
currents  of  the  sea,  fulfilling  their  mission  in  life. 
However,  different  anglers  reported  good-sized  tuna 
off  Seal  Rocks  and  Silver  Canon.  Several  fish  were 
hooked.  Mr.  Reed  brought  in  a  one-hundred-and- 
forty-one-pound  tuna  that  took  five  hours  to  land. 
It  made  a  dogged,  desperate  resistance  and  was  al- 
most unbeatable.  Mr.  Reed  is  a  heavy,  powerful 
man,  and  he  said  this  tuna  gave  him  the  hardest 
task  he  ever  attempted.  I  wondered  what  I  would 
have  done  with  one  of  those  two-  or  three-hundred- 
pounders.  There  is  a  difference  between  Pacific 
and  Atlantic  tuna.  The  latter  are  seacows  com- 
pared to  these  blue  pluggers  of  the  West.  I  have 
hooked  several  very  large  tuna  along  the  Seabright 
coast,  and,  though  these  fish  got  away,  they  did  not 
give  me  the  battle  I  have  had  with  small  tuna  of  the 
Pacific.  Mr.  Wortheim,  fishing  with  my  old  boat- 
man, Horse-mackerel  Sam,  landed  a  two-hundred- 
and-sixty-two-pound  Atlantic  tuna  in  less  than  two 
hours.  Sam  said  the  fish  made  a  loggy,  rolling,  easy 
fight.  Crowninshield,  also  fishing  with  Sam,  caught 
one  weighing  three  hundred  pounds  in  rather  short 
order.  This  sort  of  feat  cannot  be  done  out  here  in 
the  Pacific.  The  deep  water  here  may  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  it,  but  the  tuna  are  different,  if 
not  in  species,  then  in  disposition. 

My  lucky  day  came  after  no  tuna  had  been  re- 
ported for  a  week.  Captain  Dan  and  I  ran  out  off 
Silver  Canon  just  on  a  last  forlorn  hope.  The  sea 
was  rippling  white  and  blue,  with  a  good  breeze. 
No  whales  showed.    We  left  Avalon  about  one 

240 


BIG  TUNA 


o'clock,  ran  out  five  miles,  and  began  to  fish.  Our 
methods  had  undergone  some  change.  We  used  a 
big  kite  out  on  three  hundred  yards  of  line;  we  tied 
this  line  on  my  leader,  and  we  tightened  the  drag 
on  the  reel  so  that  it  took  a  nine-pound  pull  to  start 
the  line  off.  This  seemed  a  fatal  procedure,  but  I 
was  willing  to  try  anything.  My  hope  of  getting  a 
strike  was  exceedingly  slim.  Instead  of  a  flying- 
fish  for  bait  we  used  a  good-sized  smelt,  and  we  used 
hooks  big  and  strong  and  sharp  as  needles. 

We  had  not  been  out  half  an  hour  when  Dan  left 
the  wheel  and  jumped  up  on  the  gunwale  to  look 
at  something. 

"What  do  you  see?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

He  was  silent  a  moment.  I  dare  say  he  did  not 
want  to  make  any  mistakes.  Then  he  jumped  back 
to  the  wheel. 

"School  of  tuna!"  he  boomed. 

I  stood  up  and  looked  in  the  direction  indicated, 
but  I  could  not  see  them.  Dan  said  only  the  move- 
ment on  the  water  could  be  seen.  Good  long  swells 
were  running,  rather  high,  and  presently  I  did  see 
tuna  showing  darkly  bronze  in  the  blue  water. 
They  vanished.  We  had  to  turn  the  boat  somewhat, 
and  it  began  to  appear  that  we  would  have  difficulty 
in  putting  the  bait  into  the  school.  So  it  turned 
out.  We  were  in  the  wrong  quarter  to  use  the  wind. 
I  saw  the  school  of  tuna  go  by,  perhaps  two  hundred 
feet  from  the  boat.  They  were  traveling  fast,  some- 
what under  the  surface,  and  were  separated  from 
one  another.  They  were  big  tuna,  but  nothing  near 
the  size  of  those  that  had  wrecked  my  tackle  and 
hopes.    Captain  Dan  said  they  were  hungry,  hunt- 

16  241 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


ing  fish.  To  me  they  appeared  game,  swift,  and 
illusive. 

We  lost  sight  of  them.  With  the  boat  turned 
fairly  into  the  west  wind  the  kite  soared,  pulling 
hard,  and  my  bait  skipped  down  the  slopes  of  the 
swells  and  up  over  the  crests  just  like  a  live,  leaping 
little  fish.  It  was  my  opinion  that  the  tuna  were 
running  inshore.  Dan  said  they  were  headed  west. 
We  saw  nothing  of  them.  Again  the  old  familiar 
disappointment  knocked  at  my  heart,  with  added 
bitterness  of  past  defeat.  Dan  scanned  the  sea  like 
a  shipwrecked  mariner  watching  for  a  sail. 

"  I  see  them ! . . .  There  !"  he  called.  "  They're  sure 
traveling  fast." 

That  stimulated  me  with  a  shock.  I  looked  and 
looked,  but  I  could  not  see  the  darkened  water. 
Moments  passed,  during  which  I  stood  up,  watch- 
ing my  bait  as  it  slipped  over  the  waves.  I  knew 
Dan  would  tell  me  when  to  begin  to  jump  it.  The 
suspense  grew  to  be  intense. 

"We'll  catch  up  with  them,"  said  Dan,  excitedly. 
"Everything's  right  now.  Kite  high,  pulling  hard 
— bait  working  fine.  You're  sure  of  a  strike.  .  .  . 
When  you  see  one  get  the  bait  hook  him  quick  and 
hard." 

The  ambition  of  years,  the  long  patience,  the  end- 
less efforts,  the  numberless  disappointments,  and 
that  never-to-be-forgotten  day  among  the  giant 
tuna — these  flashed  up  at  Captain  Dan's  words  of 
certainty,  and,  together  with  the  thrilling  proximity 
of  the  tuna  we  were  chasing,  they  roused  in  me 
emotion  utterly  beyond  proportion  or  reason.  This 
had  happened  to  me  before,  notably  in  swordfishing, 

242 


BIG  TUNA 


but  never  had  I  felt  such  thrills,  such  tingling  nerves, 
such  oppression  on  my  chest,  such  a  wild,  eager 
rapture.  It  would  have  been  impossible,  notwith- 
standing my  emotional  temperament,  if  the  leading 
up  to  this  moment  had  not  included  so  much  long- 
sustained  feeling. 

"Jump  your  bait!"  called  Dan,  with  a  ring  in  his 
voice.    "In  two  jumps  you'll  be  in  the  tail-enders." 

I  jerked  my  rod.  The  bait  gracefully  leaped  over 
a  swell — shot  along  the  surface,  and  ended  with  a 
splash.  Again  I  jerked.  As  the  bait  rose  into  the 
air  a  huge  angry  splash  burst  just  under  it,  and  a 
broad-backed  tuna  lunged  and  turned  clear  over, 
his  tail  smacking  the  water. 

"Jump  it!"  yelled  Dan. 

Before  I  could  move,  a  circling  smash  of  white 
surrounded  my  bait.  I  heard  it.  With  all  my 
might  I  jerked.  Strong  and  heavy  came  the  weight 
of  the  tuna.  I  had  hooked  him.  With  one  solid 
thumping  splash  he  sounded.  Here  was  test  for  line 
and  test  for  me.  I  could  not  resist  one  turn  of  the 
thumb-wheel,  to  ease  the  drag.  He  went  down 
with  the  same  old  incomparable  speed.  I  saw  the 
kite  descending.  Dan  threw  out  the  clutch — ran 
to  my  side.  The  reel  screamed.  Every  tense  sec- 
ond, as  the  line  whizzed  off,  I  expected  it  to  break. 
There  was  no  joy,  no  sport  in  that  painful  watching. 
He  ran  off  two  hundred  feet,  then,  marvelous  to  see, 
he  slowed  up.  The  kite  was  still  high,  pulling  hard. 
What  with  kite  and  drag  and  friction  of  line  in  the 
water,  that  tuna  had  great  strain  upon  him.  He 
ran  off  a  little  more,  slower  this  time,  then  stopped* 
The  kite  began  to  flutter. 

243 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


I  fell  into  the  chair,  jammed  the  rod-butt  into  the 
socket,  and  began  to  pump  and  wind. 

"Doc,  you're  hooked  on  and  you've  stopped  him!'5 
boomed  Dan.  His  face  beamed.  "Look  at  your 
legs!" 

It  became  manifest  then  that  my  knees  were  wab- 
bling, my  feet  puttering  around,  my  whole  lower 
limbs  shaking  as  if  I  had  the  palsy.  I  had  lost  con- 
trol of  my  lower  muscles.  It  was  funny;  it  was 
ridiculous.  It  showed  just  what  was  my  state  of 
excitement. 

The  kite  fluttered  down  to  the  water.  The  kite- 
line  had  not  broken  off,  and  this  must  add  severely 
to  the  strain  on  the  fish.  Not  only  had  I  stopped 
the  tuna,  but  soon  I  had  him  coming  up,  slowly 
yet  rather  easily.  He  was  directly  under  the  boat. 
When  I  had  all  save  about  one  hundred  feet  of  line 
wound  in  the  tuna  anchored  himself  and  would  not 
budge  for  fifteen  minutes.  Then  again  rather  easily 
he  was  raised  fifty  more  feet.  He  acted  like  any 
small,  hard-fighting  fish. 

"I've  hooked  a  little  one,"  I  began.  "That  big 
fellow  missed  the  bait,  and  a  small  one  grabbed 
it." 

Dan  would  not  say  so,  but  he  feared  just  that. 
What  miserable  black  luck!  Almost  I  threw  the 
rod  and  reel  overboard.  Some  sense,  however,  pre- 
vented me  from  such  an  absurdity.  And  as  I 
worked  the  tuna  closer  and  closer  I  grew  absolutely 
sick  with  disappointment.  The  only  thing  to  do 
was  to  haul  this  little  fish  in  and  go  hunt  up  the 
school.  So  I  pumped  and  pulled.  That  half-hour 
seemed  endless  and  bad  business  altogether.  Anger 

244 


A  BLUE-FINNED  PLUGGER  OF  THE  DEEP  138-POUND  TUNA 


BIG  TUNA 


possessed  me  and  I  began  to  work  harden  At  this 
juncture  Shorty's  boat  appeared  close  to  us.  Shorty 
and  Adams  waved  me  congratulations,  and  then 
made  motions  to  Dan  to  get  the  direction  of  the 
school  of  tuna.  That  night  both  Shorty  and  Adams 
told  me  that  I  was  working  very  hard  on  the  fish, 
too  hard  to  save  any  strength  for  a  long  battle. 

Captain  Dan  watched  the  slow,  steady  bends  of 
my  rod  as  the  tuna  plugged,  and  at  last  he  said, 
"Doc,  it's  a  big  fish!" 

Strange  to  relate,  this  did  not  electrify  me.  I  did 
not  believe  it.  But  at  the  end  of  that  half -hour  the 
tuna  came  clear  to  the  surface,  about  one  hundred 
feet  from  us,  and  there  he  rode  the  swells.  Doubt 
folded  his  sable  wings!  Bronze  and  blue  and  green 
and  silver  flashes  illumined  the  swells.  I  plainly 
saw  that  not  only  was  the  tuna  big,  but  he  was  one 
of  the  long,  slim,  hard-fighting  species. 

Presently  he  sounded,  and  I  began  to  work.  I 
was  fresh,  eager,  strong,  and  I  meant  to  whip  him 
quickly.  Working  on  a  big  tuna  is  no  joke.  It  is 
a  man's  job.  A  tuna  fights  on  his  side,  with  head 
down,  and  he  never  stops.  If  the  angler  rests  the 
tuna  will  not  only  rest,  too,  but  he  will  take  more  and 
more  line.  The  method  is  a  long,  slow  lift  or  pump 
of  rod — then  lower  the  rod  quickly  and  wind  the 
reel.  When  the  tuna  is  raised  so  high  he  will  refuse 
to  come  any  higher,  and  then  there  is  a  deadlock. 
There  lives  no  fisherman  but  what  there  lives  a  tuna 
that  can  take  the  conceit  and  the  fight  out  of  him. 

For  an  hour  I  worked.  I  sweat  and  panted  and 
burned  in  the  hot  sun;  and  I  enjoyed  it.  The  sea 
was  beautiful.    A  strong,  salty  fragrance,  wet  and 

245 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


sweet,  floated  on  the  breeze,  Catalina  showed  clear 
and  bright,  with  its  colored  cliffs  and  yellow  slides 
and  dark  ravines.  Clemente  Island  rose  a  dark, 
long,  barren,  lonely  land  to  the  southeast.  The 
clouds  in  the  west  were  like  trade-wind  clouds, 
white,  regular,  with  level  base-line. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  hour  I  was  tiring.  There 
came  a  subtle  change  of  spirit  and  mood.  I  had 
never  let  up  for  a  minute.  Captain  Dan  praised 
me,  vowed  I  had  never  fought  either  broadbill  or 
roundbill  swordfish  so  consistently  hard,  but  he 
cautioned  me  to  save  myself. 

"That's  a  big  tuna/5  he  said,  as  he  watched  my 
rod. 

Most  of  the  time  we  drifted.  Some  of  the  time 
Dan  ran  the  boat  to  keep  even  with  the  tuna,  so  he 
could  not  get  too  far  under  the  stern  and  cut  the 
line.  At  intervals  the  fish  appeared  to  let  up  and 
at  others  he  plugged  harder.  This  I  discovered  was 
merely  that  he  fought  the  hardest  when  I  worked 
the  hardest.  Once  we  gained  enough  on  him  to 
cut  the  tangle  of  kite-line  that  had  caught  some  fifty 
feet  above  my  leader.  This  afforded  cause  for  less 
anxiety. 

"I'm  afraid  of  sharks,"  said  Dan. 

Sharks  are  the  bane  of  tuna  fishermen.  More 
tuna  are  cut  off  by  sharks  than  are  ever  landed  by 
anglers.  This  made  me  redouble  my  efforts,  and  in 
half  an  hour  more  I  was  dripping  wet,  burning  hot, 
aching  all  over,  and  so  spent  I  had  to  rest.  Every 
time  I  dropped  the  rod  on  the  gunwale  the  tuna 
took  line — zee — zee — zee — foot  by  foot  and  yard  by 
yard.    My  hands  were  cramped;  my  thumbs  red 

246 


BIG  TUNA 


and  swollen,  almost  raw.  I  asked  Dan  for  the  har- 
ness, but  he  was  loath  to  put  it  on  because  he  was 
afraid  I  would  break  the  fish  off.  So  I  worked  on 
and  on,  with  spurts  of  fury  and  periods  of  lagging. 

At  the  end  of  three  hours  I  was  in  bad  condition. 
I  had  saved  a  little  strength  for  the  finish,  but  I 
was  in  danger  of  using  that  up  before  the  crucial 
moment  arrived.  Dan  had  to  put  the  harness  on 
me.  I  knew  afterward  that  it  saved  the  day.  By 
the  aid  of  the  harness,  putting  my  shoulders  into  the 
lift,  I  got  the  double  line  over  the  reel,  only  to  lose 
it.  Every  time  the  tuna  was  pulled  near  the  boat 
he  sheered  off,  and  it  did  not  appear  possible  for  me 
to  prevent  it.  He  got  into  a  habit  of  coming  to  the 
surface  about  thirty  feet  out,  and  hanging  there,  in 
plain  sight,  as  if  he  was  cabled  to  the  rocks  of  the 
ocean.  Watching  him  only  augmented  my  trouble. 
It  had  ceased  long  ago  to  be  fun  or  sport  or  game. 
It  was  now  a  fight  and  it  began  to  be  torture.  My 
hands  were  all  blisters,  my  thumbs  raw.  The  re- 
spect I  had  for  that  tuna  was  great. 

He  plugged  down  mostly,  but  latterly  he  began  to 
run  off  to  each  side,  to  come  to  the  surface,  showing 
his  broad  green-silver  side,  and  then  he  weaved  to 
and  fro  behind  the  boat,  trying  to  get  under  it. 
Captain  Dan  would  have  to  run  ahead  to  keep  away 
from  him.  To  hold  what  gain  I  had  on  the  tuna 
was  at  these  periods  almost  unendurable.  Where 
before  I  had  sweat,  burned,  throbbed,  and  ached,  I 
now  began  to  see  red,  to  grow  dizzy,  to  suffer  cramps 
and  nausea  and  exceeding  pain. 

Three  hours  and  a  half  showed  the  tuna  slower, 
heavier,  higher,  easier.    He  had  taken  us  fifteen 

247 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


miles  from  where  we  had  hooked  him.  He  was 
weakening,  but  I  thought  I  was  worse  off  than  he  was. 
Dan  changed  the  harness.  It  seemed  to  make  more 
effort  possible. 

The  floor  under  my  feet  was  wet  and  slippery 
from  the  salt  water  dripping  off  my  reel.  I  could 
not  get  any  footing.  The  bend  of  that  rod  down- 
ward, the  ceaseless  tug,  tug,  tug,  the  fear  of  sharks, 
the  paradoxical  loss  of  desire  now  to  land  the  tuna, 
the  change  in  my  feeling  of  elation  and  thrill  to 
wonder,  disgust,  and  utter  weariness  of  spirit  and 
body — all  these  warned  me  that  I  was  at  the  end  of 
my  tether,  and  if  anything  could  be  done  it  must  be 
quickly. 

Relaxing,  I  took  a  short  rest.  Then  nerving  my- 
self to  be  indifferent  to  the  pain,  and  yielding  alto- 
gether to  the  brutal  instinct  this  tuna-fighting  rouses 
in  a  fisherman,  I  lay  back  with  might  and  main. 
Eight  times  I  had  gotten  the  double  line  over  the 
reel.  On  the  ninth  I  shut  down,  clamped  with 
my  thumbs,  and  froze  there.  The  wire  leader  sung 
like  a  telephone  wire  in  the  cold.  I  could  scarcely 
see.  My  arms  cracked.  I  felt  an  immense  strain 
that  must  break  me  in  an  instant. 

Captain  Dan  reached  the  leader.  Slowly  he 
heaved.  The  strain  upon  me  was  released.  I  let 
go  the  reel,  threw  off  the  drag,  and  stood  up.  There 
the  tuna  was,  the  bronze-and-blue-backed  devil, 
gaping,  wide-eyed,  shining  and  silvery  as  he  rolled, 
a  big  tuna  if  there  ever  was  one,  and  he  was  con- 
quered. 

When  Dan  lunged  with  the  gaff  the  tuna  made  a 
tremendous  splash  that  deluged  us.    Then  Dan 

$48 


BIG  TUNA 


yelled  for  another  gaff.  I  was  quick  to  get  it.  Next 
it  was  for  me  to  throw  a  lasso  over  that  threshing 
tail.  When  I  accomplished  this  the  tuna  was  ours. 
We  hauled  him  up  on  the  stern,  heaving,  thumping, 
throwing  water  and  blood;  and  even  vanquished  he 
was  magnificent.  Three  hours  and  fifty  minutes! 
The  number  fifty  stayed  with  me.  As  I  fell  back  in 
a  chair,  all  in,  I  could  not  see  for  my  life  why  any 
fisherman  would  want  to  catch  more  than  one  large 
tuna. 


XIV 


AVALON,  THE  BEAUTIFUL 

IF  you  are  a  fisherman,  and  aspire  to  the  study  or 
conquest  of  the  big  game  of  the  sea,  go  to  Catalina 
Island  once  before  it  is  too  late. 

The  summer  of  1917  will  never  be  forgotten  by 
those  fishermen  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  be 
at  Avalon.  Early  in  June,  even  in  May,  there  were 
indications  that  the  first  record  season  in  many  years 
might  be  expected.  Barracuda  and  white  sea-bass 
showed  up  in  great  schools;  the  ocean  appeared  to 
be  full  of  albacore;  yellowtail  began  to  strike  all 
along  the  island  shores  and  even  in  the  bay  of  Avalon; 
almost  every  day  in  July  sight  of  broadbill  sword- 
fish  was  reported,  sometimes  as  many  as  ten  in  a 
day;  in  August  the  blue-fin  tuna  surged  in,  school 
after  school,  in  vast  numbers;  and  in  September 
returned  the  Marlin,  or  roundbill  swordfish  that 
royal-purple  swashbuckler  of  the  Pacific. 

This  extraordinary  run  of  fish  appeared  like  old 
times  to  the  boatmen  and  natives  who  could  look 
back  over  many  Catalina  years.  The  cause,  of 
course,  was  a  favorable  season  when  the  sardines 
and  anchovies  came  to  the  island  in  incalculable 
numbers.  Acres  and  acres  of  these  little  bait  fish 
drifted  helplessly  to  and  fro,  back  and  forth  with 

250 


AVALON,  THE  BEAUTIFUL 


the  tides,  from  Seal  Rocks  to  the  west  end.  These 
schools  were  not  broken  up  until  the  advent  of  the 
voracious  tuna;  and  when  they  arrived  the  ocean 
soon  seemed  littered  with  small,  amber-colored 
patches,  each  of  which  was  a  densely  packed  mass 
of  sardines  or  anchovies,  drifting  with  the  current. 
It  has  not  yet  been  established  that  swordfish  feed 
on  these  schools,  but  the  swordfish  were  there  in 
abundance,  at  any  rate;  and  it  was  reasonable  to 
suppose  that  some  of  the  fish  they  feed  on  were  in 
pursuit  of  the  anchovies. 

Albacore  feeding  on  the  surface  raise  a  thin,  low, 
white  line  of  water  or  multitudes  of  slight,  broken 
splashes.  Tuna  raise  a  white  wall,  tumbling  and 
spouting  along  the  horizon;  and  it  is  a  sight  not  soon 
to  be  forgotten  by  a  fisherman.  Near  at  hand  a 
big  school  of  feeding  tuna  is  a  thrilling  spectacle. 
They  move  swiftly,  breaking  water  as  they  smash 
after  the  little  fish,  and  the  roar  can  be  heard  quite 
a  distance.  The  wall  of  white  water  seems  full  of 
millions  of  tiny,  glinting  fish,  leaping  frantically  from 
the  savage  tuna.  And  when  the  sunlight  shines 
golden  through  this  wall  of  white  spray,  and  the 
great  bronze  and  silver  and  blue  tuna  gleam  for  an 
instant,  the  effect  is  singularly  exciting  and  beautiful. 

All  through  August  and  much  of  September  these 
schools  of  tuna,  thousands  of  them,  ranted  up  and 
down  the  coast  of  Catalina,  thinning  out  the  amber 
patches  of  anchovies,  and  affording  the  most  mag- 
nificent sport  to  anglers. 

These  tuna  may  return  next  year  and  then  again 
they  may  not  return  for  ten  years.  Some  time  again 
they  will  swing  round  the  circle  or  drift  with  the 

251 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


currents,  in  that  mysterious  and  inscrutable  nature 
of  the  ocean.  And  if  a  fisherman  can  only  pick 
out  the  year  or  have  the  obsession  to  go  back  season 
after  season  he  will  some  day  see  these  wonderful 
schools  again. 

But  as  for  the  other  fish — swordfish,  white  sea- 
bass,  yellowtail,  and  albacore — their  doom  has  been 
spelled,  and  soon  they  will  be  no  more.  That  is 
why  I  say  to  fishermen  if  they  want  to  learn  some- 
thing about  these  incomparable  fish  they  must  go 
soon  to  Catalina  before  it  is  too  late. 

The  Japs,  the  Austrians,  the  round-haul  nets,  the 
canneries  and  the  fertilizer-plants — that  is  to  say, 
foreigners  and  markets,  greed  and  war,  have  cast 
their  dark  shadow  over  beautiful  Avalon.  The  in- 
telligent, far-seeing  boatmen  all  see  it.  My  boat- 
man, Captain  Danielson,  spoke  gloomily  of  the  not 
distant  time  when  his  occupation  would  be  gone. 
And  as  for  the  anglers  who  fish  at  Catalina,  some 
of  them  see  it  and  many  of  them  do  not.  The  stand- 
ard raised  at  Avalon  has  been  to  haul  in  as  many 
of  the  biggest  fish  in  the  least  possible  time.  One 
famous  fisherman  brought  in  thirteen  tuna — nine 
hundred  and  eighty-six  pounds  of  tuna — that  he 
caught  in  one  day!  This  is  unbelievable,  yet  it  is 
true.  Another  brought  in  eleven  tuna  in  one  day. 
These  fishermen  are  representative  of  the  coterie 
who  fish  for  records.  All  of  them  are  big,  powerful 
men,  and  when  they  hook  a  fish  they  will  not  give  him 
a  foot  of  line  if  they  can  help  it.  They  horse  him 
in,  and  if  they  can  horse  him  in  before  he  wakes  up 
to  real  combat  they  are  the  better  pleased.  All  of 
which  is  to  say  that  the  true  motive  (or  pleasure, 

252 


THE  OLD  AVALON  BARGE  WHERE  THE  GULLS  FISH  AND  SCREAM 


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AVALON,  THE  BEAUTIFUL 


if  it  can  be  such)  is  the  instinct  to  kill.  I  have  ob- 
served this  in  many  fishermen.  Any  one  who 
imagines  that  man  has  advanced  much  beyond  the 
savage  stage  has  only  carefully  to  observe  fisher- 
men. 

I  have  demonstrated  the  practicability  of  letting 
Marlin  swordfish  go  after  they  were  beaten,  but 
almost  all  of  the  boatmen  will  not  do  it.  The  greater 
number  of  swordfish  weigh  under  two  hundred 
pounds,  and  when  exhausted  and  pulled  up  to  the 
boat  they  can  be  freed  by  cutting  the  wire  leader 
close  to  the  hook.  Probably  all  these  fish  would 
live.  A  fisherman  will  have  his  fun  seeing  and 
photographing  the  wonderful  leaps,  and  conquering 
the  fish,  and  when  all  this  is  over  it  would  be  sports- 
man-like to  let  him  go.  Marlin  are  not  food  fish, 
and  they  are  thrown  to  the  sharks.  During  1918, 
however,  many  were  sold  as  food  fish.  It  seems  a 
pity  to  treat  this  royal,  fighting,  wonderful,  purple- 
colored  fish  in  this  way.  But  the  boatmen  will  not 
free  them.  My  boatman  claimed  that  his  reputa- 
tion depended  upon  the  swordfish  he  caught;  and 
that  in  Avalon  no  one  would  believe  fish  were  caught 
unless  brought  to  the  dock.  It  was  his  bread  and 
butter.  His  reputation  brought  him  new  fisher- 
men, and  so  he  could  not  afford  to  lose  it.  Never- 
theless, he  was  persuaded  to  do  it  in  1918.  The 
fault,  then,  does  not  lie  with  the  boatman. 

The  Japs  are  the  greatest  market  fishermen  in 
the  world.  And  some  five  hundred  boats  put  out 
of  San  Pedro  every  day,  to  scour  the  ocean  for  "the 
chicken  of  the  sea,"  as  albacore  are  advertised  to 
the  millions  of  people  who  are  always  hungry.  It 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


must  be  said  that  the  Japs  mostly  fish  square.  They 
use  a  hook,  and  a  barbless  hook  at  that.  Usually 
four  Japs  constitute  the  crew  of  one  of  these  fast 
eighty-horse-power  motor-boats.  They  roam  the 
sea  with  sharp  eyes  ever  alert  for  that  thin  white 
line  on  the  horizon,  the  feeding  albacore.  Their 
method  of  fishing  is  unique  and  picturesque.  When 
they  sight  albacore  they  run  up  on  the  school  and 
slow  down. 

In  the  stern  of  the  boat  stands  a  huge  tank, 
usually  painted  red.  I  have  become  used  to  seeing 
dots  of  red  all  over  the  ocean.  This  tank  is  kept 
full  of  fresh  sea-water  by  a  pump  connected  with 
the  engine,  and  it  is  used  to  keep  live  bait — no  other 
than  the  little  anchovies.  One  Jap,  using  a  little  net, 
dips  up  live  bait  and  throws  them  overboard  to  the 
albacore.  Another  Jap  beats  on  the  water  with 
long  bamboo  poles,  making  splashes.  The  other  two 
Japs  have  short,  stiff  poles  with  a  wire  attached  and 
the  barbless  hook  at  the  end.  They  put  on  a  live 
bait  and  toss  it  over.  Instantly  they  jerk  hard, 
and  two  big  white  albacore,  from  fifteen  to  thirty 
pounds,  come  wiggling  up  on  to  the  stern  of  the 
boat.  Down  goes  the  pole  and  whack!  goes  a  club. 
It  is  all  done  with  swift  mechanical  precision.  It 
used  to  amaze  me  and  fill  me  with  sadness.  If  the 
Japs  could  hold  the  school  of  albacore  they  would 
very  soon  load  the  boat.  But  usually  a  school  of 
albacore  cannot  be  held  long. 

You  cannot  fish  in  the  channel  any  more  without 

encountering  these  Jap  boats.    Once  at  one  time 

in  1917  I  saw  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  boats. 

Most  of  them  were  fishing!    They  ran  to  and  ior 

254 


AVALON,  THE  BEAUTIFUL 


over  the  ocean,  chasing  every  white  splash,  and  they 
make  an  angler's  pleasure  taste  bitter. 

Fortunately  the  Japs  had  let  the  tuna  alone,  for 
the  simple  and  good  reason  that  they  had  not  found 
a  way  to  catch  the  wise  blue-fins.  But  they  will  find 
a  way !  Yet  they  drove  the  schools  down,  and  that 
was  almost  as  bad.  As  far  as  swordfish  are  concerned, 
it  is  easy  to  see  what  will  happen,  now  that  the  alba- 
core  have  become  scarce.  Broadbill  swordfish  are  the 
finest  food  fish  in  the  sea.  They  can  be  easily  har- 
pooned by  these  skilful  Japs.  And  so  eventually  they 
will  be  killed  and  driven  away.  This  misfortune  may 
not  come  at  once,  but  it  will  come. 

In  this  connection  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  I 
tried  to  photograph  one  of  the  Austrian  crews  in 
action.  But  Captain  Dan  would  not  let  me  get 
near  enough  to  take  a  picture.  There  is  bad  blood 
between  Avalon  boatmen  and  these  foreign  market 
fishermen.  Shots  had  been  exchanged  more  than 
once.  Captain  Dan  kept  a  rifle  on  board.  This 
news  sort  of  stirred  me.  And  I  said:  "Run  close  to 
that  bunch,  Cap.  Maybe  they'll  take  a  peg  at  me!" 
But  he  refused  to  comply,  and  I  lost  a  chance  to 
serve  my  country! 

The  Japs,  however,  are  square  fishermen,  mostly, 
and  I  rather  admire  those  albacore-chasers,  who  at 
least  give  the  fish  a  chance.  Some  of  them  use  nets, 
and  against  them  and  the  Austrian  round-haul 
netters  I  am  exceedingly  bitter.  These  round-haul 
nets,  some  of  them,  must  be  a  mile  long,  and  they 
sink  two  hundred  feet  in  the  water.  What  chance 
has  a  school  of  fish  against  that?  They  surround 
a  school  and  there  is  no  escape. 

255 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


Clemente  Island,  the  sister  island  to  Catalina, 
was  once  a  paradise  for  fish,  especially  the  beautiful, 
gamy  yellowtail.  But  there  are  no  more  fish  there, 
except  Marlin  swordfish  in  August  and  September. 
The  great,  boiling  schools  of  yellowtail  are  gone. 
Clemente  Island  has  no  three-mile  law  protecting 
it,  as  has  Catalina.  But  that  Catalina  law  has  be- 
come a  farce.  It  is  violated  often  in  broad  day- 
light, and  probably  all  night  long.  One  Austrian 
round-haul  netter  took  seven  tons  of  white  sea-bass 
in  one  haul.  Seven  tons!  Did  you  ever  look  at  a 
white  sea-bass?  He  is  the  most  beautiful  of  bass — 
slender,  graceful,  thoroughbred,  exquisitely  colored 
like  a  paling  opal,  and  a  fighter  if  there  ever  was  one. 

What  becomes  of  these  seven  tons  of  white  sea- 
bass  and  all  the  other  tons  and  tons  of  yellowtail 
and  albacore?  That  is  a  question.  It  needs  to  be 
answered.  During  the  year  1917  one  heard  many 
things.  The  fish-canneries  were  working  day  and 
night,  and  every  can  of  fish — the  whole  output  had 
been  bought  by  the  government  for  the  soldiers. 
Very  good.  We  are  a  nation  at  war.  Our  soldiers 
must  be  properly  fed  and  so  must  our  allies.  If  it 
takes  all  the  fish  in  the  sea  and  all  the  meat  on  the 
land,  we  must  and  will  win  this  war. 

But  real  patriotism  is  one  thing  and  misstatement 
is  another.  If  there  were  not  so  much  deceit  and 
greed  in  connection  with  this  war  it  would  be  easier 
to  stomach. 

As  a  matter  of  cold  fact,  that  round-haul  netter's 
seven  tons  of  beautiful  white  sea-bass  did  not  go 
into  cans  for  our  good  soldiers  or  for  our  fighting 
allies.    Those  seven  tons  of  splendid  white  sea-bass 

256 


AVALON,  THE  BEAUTIFUL 


went  into  the  fertilizer-plant,  where  many  and 
many  a  ton  had  gone  before! 

It  is  not  hard  to  comprehend.  When  they  work 
for  the  fertilizer-plants  they  do  not  need  ice — they 
do  not  need  to  hurry  to  the  port  to  save  spoiling — 
they  can  stay  out  till  the  boat  is  packed  full.  So 
often  a  greater  part  of  the  magnificent  schools  of 
white  sea-bass,  albacore,  and  yellowtail — splendid 
food  fish — go  into  the  fertilizer-plants  to  make  a  few 
foreign-born  hogs  rich.  Hundreds  of  aliens,  many 
of  them  hostile  to  the  United  States,  are  making 
big  money,  which  is  sent  abroad. 

I  believe  that  the  great  kelp-beds  round  Catalina 
are  the  spawning-grounds  of  these  fish  in  question. 
And  not  only  a  spawning-ground,  but,  what  is  more 
important,  a  feeding-ground.  And  now  the  kelp- 
beds  are  being  exploited.  The  government  needs 
potash.  Formerly  our  supply  of  potash  came  from 
Germany.  But,  now  that  we  are  not  on  amiable 
terms  with  those  nice  gentle  Germans,  we  cannot  get 
any  potash.  Hence  the  great,  huge  kelp-cutters  that 
you  hear  cut  only  the  tops  of  the  kelp-beds.  Six  feet 
they  say,  and  it  all  grows  up  again  quickly.  But  in 
my  opinion  the  once  vast,  heaving,  wonderful  beds 
of  kelp  along  the  Clemente  and  Catalina  shores  have 
been  cut  too  deeply.    They  will  die. 

Some  of  my  predictions  made  in  1917  were  veri- 
fied in  1918. 

A  few  scattered  schools  of  albacore  appeared  in 
the  channel  in  July.  But  these  were  soon  caught  or 
chased  away  by  the  market  boats.  Albacore-fishing 
was  poor  in  other  localities  up  and  down  the  coast. 
Many  of  the  Jap  fishermen  sold  their  boats  and 

257 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


sought  other  industry.  It  was  a  fact,  and  a  great 
pleasure,  that  an  angler  could  go  out  for  tuna  with- 
out encountering  a  single  market  boat  on  the  sea. 
Maybe  the  albacore  did  not  come  this  year;  maybe 
they  were  mostly  all  caught;  maybe  they  were 
growing  shyer  of  boats;  at  any  event,  they  were 
scarce,  and  the  reason  seems  easy  to  see. 

It  was  significant  that  the  broadbill  swordfish  did 
not  return  to  Avalon  in  1918,  as  in  former  years. 
I  saw  only  one  in  two  months  roaming  the  ocean. 
A  few  were  seen.  Not  one  was  caught  during  my 
stay  on  the  island.  Many  boatmen  and  anglers  be- 
lieve that  the  broadbills  follow  the  albacore.  It 
seems  safe  to  predict  that  when  the  albacore  cease 
to  come  to  Catalina  there  will  not  be  any  fishing  for 
the  great  flat-sworded  Xiphias. 

The  worst  that  came  to  pass  in  1918,  from  an 
angler's  viewpoint,  was  that  the  market  fishermen 
found  a  way  to  net  the  blue-fin  tuna,  both  large 
and  small.  All  I  could  learn  was  that  the  nets 
were  lengthened  and  deepened.  The  Japs  got  into 
the  great  schools  of  large  tuna  which  appeared  off 
Anacapa  Island  and  netted  tons  and  tons  of  hundred- 
pound  tuna.  These  schools  drifted  on  down  the 
middle  of  the  Clemente  Channel,  and  I  was  the 
lucky  fellow  who  happened  to  get  among  them  for 
one  memorable  day. 

Take  it  all  in  all,  my  gloomy  prophecies  of  other 
years  were  substantiated  in  1918,  especially  in  re- 
gard to  the  devastated  kelp-beds;  but  there  have 
been  a  few  silver  rifts  in  the  black  cloud,  and  it 
seems  well  to  end  this  book  with  mention  of  brighter 
things. 

258 


AVALON,  THE  BEAUTIFUL 


All  fish  brought  into  Avalon  in  1918  were  sold  for 
food. 

We  inaugurated  the  releasing  of  small  Marlin 
swordfish. 

There  was  a  great  increase  in  the  interest  taken 
in  the  use  of  light  tackle. 

We  owe  the  latter  stride  toward  conservation  and 
sportsmanship  to  Mr.  James  Jump,  and  to  Lone 
Angler,  and  to  President  Coxe  of  the  Tuna  Club. 
I  had  not  been  entirely  in  sympathy  with  their  feats 
of  taking  Marlin  swordfish  and  tuna  on  light  tackle. 
My  objections  to  the  use  of  too  light  tackle  have 
been  cited  before  in  this  book.  Many  fish  break 
away  on  the  nine-thread.  I  know  this  because  I 
tried  it  out.  Fifteen  of  those  small  tuna,  one  after 
another,  broke  my  line  on  the  first  rush.  But  I 
believe  that  was  my  lack  of  skill  with  handling  of 
rod  and  boat. 

As  for  Marlin,  I  have  always  known  that  I  could 
take  some  of  these  roundbill  swordfish  on  light 
tackle.  But  likewise  there  have  been  some  that 
could  not  have  been  taken  so,  and  these  are  the 
swordfish  I  have  fished  for. 

Nevertheless,  I  certainly  do  not  want  to  detract 
from  Jump's  achievements,  as  I  will  show.  They 
have  been  remarkable.  And  they  have  attracted  wide 
attention  to  the  possibilities  of  light  tackle.  Thus 
Mr.  Jump  has  done  conservative  angling  an  estimable 
good,  as  well  as  placed  himself  in  a  class  alone. 

The  use  of  light  tackle  by  experts  for  big  game  fish 
of  the  sea  has  come  to  be  an  established  practice  in 
American  angling.  A  few  years  ago,  when  sport 
with  light  tackle  was  exceptional,  it  required  courage 

259 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


to  flaunt  its  use  in  the  faces  of  fishermen  of  experience 
and  established  reputation.  Long  Key,  now  the 
most  noted  fishing  resort  on  the  Atlantic  coast,  was 
not  many  years  back  a  place  for  hand-lines  and  huge 
rods  and  tackle,  and  boat-loads  of  fish  for  one  man. 
It  has  become  a  resort  for  gentlemen  anglers,  and 
its  sportsmen's  club  claims  such  experts  and  fine 
exponents  of  angling  as  Heilner,  Lester,  Cassiard, 
Crowninshield,  Conill,  the  Schutts,  and  others,  who 
can  safely  be  trusted  to  advance  the  standard. 
Fishermen  are  like  sheep — they  follow  the  boldest 
leaders.  And  no  one  wants  to  be  despised  by  the 
elect.  Long  Key,  with  its  isolation,  yet  easy  ac- 
cession, its  beauty  and  charm,  its  loneliness  and 
quiet,  its  big  game  fish,  will  become  the  Mecca  of 
high-class  light-tackle  anglers,  who  will  in  time 
answer  for  the  ethics  and  sportsmanship  of  the  At- 
lantic seaboard. 

On  the  Pacific  side  the  light-tackle  advocates  have 
had  a  different  row  to  hoe.  With  nothing  but  keen, 
fair,  honest,  and  splendid  zealousness  Mr.  James 
Jump  has  pioneered  this  sport  almost  single-handed 
against  the  heavy-tackle  record-holder  who  until 
recently  dominated  the  Tuna  Club  and  the  boat- 
men and  the  fishing  at  Avalon.  To  my  shame  and 
regret  I  confess  that  it  took  me  three  years  to  recog- 
nize Jump's  bigness  as  an  angler  and  his  tenacity 
as  a  fighter.  But  I  shall  make  amends.  It  seems 
when  I  fished  I  was  steeped  in  dreams  of  the  sea 
and  the  beauty  of  the  lonely  islands.  I  am  not  in 
Jump's  class  as  a  fisherman,  nor  in  Lone  Angler's, 
either.  They  stand  by  themselves.  But  I  can  write 
about  them,  and  so  inspire  others. 

260 


AVALON,  THE  BEAUTIFUL 

Jump  set  out  in  1914  to  catch  swordfish  on  light 
tackle,  and  incidentally  tuna  under  one  hundred 
pounds.  He  was  ridiculed,  scorned,  scoffed  at,  made 
a  butt  of  by  this  particular  heavy-tackle  angler,  and 
cordially  hated  for  his  ambitions.  Most  anglers  and 
boatmen  repudiated  his  claims  and  looked  askance 
at  him.  Personally  I  believed  Jump  might  catch 
some  swordfish  or  tuna  on  light  tackle,  but  only  one 
out  of  many,  and  that  one  not  the  fighting  kind.  I 
was  wrong.  It  was  Lone  Angler  who  first  drew  my 
attention  to  Jump's  achievements  and  possibilities. 
President  Coxe  was  alive  to  them  also,  and  he  has 
rebuilt  and  rejuvenated  the  Tuna  Club  on  the  splen- 
did standard  set  by  its  founder,  Dr.  Charles  Freder- 
ick Holder,  and  with  infinite  patience  and  tact  and 
labor,  and  love  of  fine  angling  and  good  fellowship, 
he  has  put  down  that  small  but  mighty  clique  who 
threatened  the  ruin  of  sport  at  fair  Avalon.  This 
has  not  been  public  news,  but  it  ought  to  be  and 
shall  be  public  news. 

The  malignant  attack  recently  made  upon  Mr. 
Jump's  catches  of  Marlin  swordfish  on  light  tackle 
was  uncalled  for  and  utterly  false.  It  was  an  ob- 
vious and  jealous  attempt  to  belittle,  discredit, 
and  dishonor  one  of  the  finest  gentlemen  sports- 
men who  ever  worked  for  the  good  of  the  game. 
I  know  and  I  will  swear  that  Jump's  capture 
of  the  three-hundred-and-fourteen-pound  Marlin  on 
light  tackle  in  twenty -eight  minutes  was  abso- 
lutely as  honest  as  it  was  skilful,  as  sportsman- 
like as  it  was  wonderful.  A  number  of  well- 
known  sportsmen  watched  him  take  this  Marlin. 
Yet  his  enemies  slandered  him,  accused  him  of 

£61 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


using  ropes  and  Heaven  knows  what  else!  It  was 
vile  and  it  failed. 

Jump  has  performed  the  apparently  impossible. 
Marlin  swordfish  hooked  on  light  tackle  can  be 
handled  by  an  exceedingly  skilful  angler.  They 
make  an  indescribably  spectacular,  wonderful  fight, 
on  the  surface  all  the  time,  and  can  be  taken  as 
quickly  as  on  heavy  tackle.  Obviously,  then,  this 
becomes  true  of  tarpon  and  sailfish  and  small  tuna. 
What  a  world  to  conquer  lies  before  the  fine-spirited 
angler!  A  few  fish  on  light  outfits  magnifying  all 
the  excitement  and  thrills  of  many  fish  on  heavy 
outfits!  There  are  no  arguments  against  this,  for 
men  who  have  time  and  money. 

We  pioneers  of  light  tackle  are  out  of  the  woods 
now.  There  was  a  pride  in  a  fight  against  odds — 
a  pride  of  silence,  and  a  fight  of  example  and  ex- 
pressed standards  and  splendid  achievements.  But 
now  we  have  followers,  disciples  who  have  learned, 
who  have  profited,  who  have  climbed  to  the  heights, 
and  we  are  no  longer  alone.  Hence  we  can  scatter 
the  news  to  the  four  winds  and  ask  for  the  comrade- 
ship of  kindred  spirits,  of  men  who  love  the  sea  and 
the  stream  and  the  gameness  of  a  fish.  The  Open 
Sesame  to  our  clan  is  just  that  love,  and  an  ambition 
to  achieve  higher  things.  Who  fishes  just  to  kill?  At 
Long  Key  last  winter  I  met  two  self-styled  sports- 
men. They  were  eager  to  convert  me  to  what  they 
claimed  was  the  dry-fly  class  angling  of  the  sea. 
And  it  was  to  jab  harpoons  and  spears  into  porpoises 
and  manatee  and  sawfish,  and  be  dragged  about 
in  their  boat.  The  height  of  their  achievements 
that  winter  had  been  the  harpooning  of  several  saw- 

262 


AVALON,  THE  BEAUTIFUL 


fish,  each  of  which  gave  birth  to  a  little  one  while 
being  fought  on  the  harpoon!  Ye  gods!  It  would 
never  do  to  record  my  utterances. 

But  I  record  this  fact  only  in  the  hope  of  opening 
the  eyes  of  anglers.  I  have  no  ax  to  grind  for  my- 
self. I  have  gone  through  the  game,  over  to  the 
fair  side,  and  I  want  anglers  to  know. 

We  are  a  nation  of  fishermen  and  riflemen.  Who 
says  the  Americans  cannot  shoot  or  fight?  What 
made  that  great  bunch  of  Yankee  boys  turn  back 
the  Hun  hordes?  It  was  the  quick  eye,  the  steady 
nerve,  the  unquenchable  spirit  of  the  American  boy 
— his  heritage  from  his  hunter  forefathers.  We  are 
great  fishermen's  sons  also,  and  we  can  save  the 
fish  that  are  being  depleted  in  our  waters. 

Let  every  angler  who  loves  to  fish  think  what  it 
would  mean  to  him  to  find  the  fish  were  gone.  The 
mackerel  are  gone,  the  bluefish  are  going,  the  men- 
haden are  gone,  every  year  the  amber  jack  and  king- 
fish  grow  smaller  and  fewer.  We  must  find  ways 
and  means  to  save  our  game  fish  of  the  sea;  and 
one  of  the  finest  and  most  sportsman-like  ways  is  to 
use  light  tackle. 

Wiborn,  the  Lone  Angler,  is  also  in  a  class  by  him- 
self. To  my  mind  Wiborn  is  the  ideal  angler  of  the 
sea.  I  have  aspired  to  his  method,  but  realize  it  is 
impossible  for  me.  He  goes  out  alone.  Hence  the 
name  Lone  Angler.  He  operates  his  motor-launch, 
rigs  his  tackle  and  bait  and  teasers,  flies  his  kite, 
finds  the  fish,  fights  the  one  he  hooks,  and  gaffs  and 
hauls  it  aboard  or  releases  it,  all  by  himself.  Any 
one  who  has  had  the  slightest  experience  in  Pacific 

263 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


angling  can  appreciate  this  hazardous,  complicated, 
and  laborsome  job  of  the  Lone  Angler.  Any  one  who 
ever  fought  a  big  tuna  or  swordfish  can  imagine 
where  he  would  have  been  without  a  boatman. 
After  some  of  my  fights  with  fish  Captain  Danielson 
has  been  as  tired  as  I  was.  His  job  had  been  as 
hard  as  mine.  But  Wiborn  goes  out  day  by  day 
alone,  and  he  has  brought  in  big  tuna  and  swordfish. 
Not  many!  He  is  too  fine  a  sportsman  to  bring 
in  many  fish. 

And  herein  is  the  point  I  want  to  drive  home  in 
my  tribute  to  Lone  Angler.  No  one  can  say  how 
many  fish  he  catches.  He  never  tells.  Always  he 
has  a  fine,  wonderful,  beautiful  day  on  the  water. 
It  matters  not  to  him,  the  bringing  home  of  fish  to 
exhibit.  This  roused  my  admiration,  and  also  my 
suspicion.  I  got  to  believing  that  Lone  Angler 
caught  many  more  fish  than  he  ever  brought  home. 

So  I  spied  upon  him.  Whenever  chance  afforded 
I  watched  him  through  my  powerful  binoculars.  He 
was  always  busy.  His  swift  boat  roamed  the  seas. 
Always  he  appeared  a  white  dot  on  the  blue  horizon, 
like  the  flash  of  a  gull.  I  have  watched  his  kite 
flutter  down;  I  have  seen  his  boat  stop  and  stand 
still;  I  have  seen  sheeted  splashes  of  water  near 
him;  and  more  than  once  I  have  seen  him  leaning 
back  with  bent  rod,  working  and  pumping  hard. 
But  when  he  came  into  Avalon  on  these  specific  oc- 
casions, he  brought  no  tuna,  no  swordfish — nothing 
but  a  cheerful,  enigmatic  smile  and  a  hopeful  ques- 
tion as  to  the  good  luck  of  his  friends. 

"But  I  saw  you  hauling  away  on  a  fish,"  I  vent- 
ured to  say,  once. 

264 


AVALON,  THE  BEAUTIFUL 


"Oh,  that  was  an  old  shark/'  he  replied,  laughing. 

Well,  it  might  have  been,  but  I  had  my  doubts. 
And  at  the  close  of  1918  I  believed,  though  I  could 
not  prove,  that  Lone  Angler  let  the  most  of  his  fish 
go  free.  Hail  to  Lone  Angler!  If  a  man  must 
roam  the  salt  sea  in  search  of  health  and  peace,  and 
in  a  manly,  red-blooded  exercise — here  is  the  ideal. 
I  have  not  seen  its  equal.  I  envy  him — his  mechani- 
cal skill,  his  fearlessness  of  distance  and  fog  and 
wind,  his  dexterity  with  kite  and  rod  and  wheel,  but 
especially  I  envy  him  the  lonesome  rides  upon  a  lone- 
some sea — 

Alone,  all  alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea. 

The  long,  heaving  swells,  the  windy  lanes,  the 
flight  of  the  sheerwater  and  the  uplifted  flukes  of 
the  whale,  the  white  wall  of  tuna  on  the  horizon, 
the  leap  of  the  dolphin,  the  sweet,  soft  scent  that 
breathes  from  off  the  sea,  the  beauty  and  mystery 
and  color  and  movement  of  the  deep — these  are 
Lone  Angler's  alone,  and  he  is  as  rich  as  if  he  had 
found  the  sands  of  the  Pacific  to  be  pearls,  the 
waters  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 

Happily,  neither  war  nor  business  nor  fish-hogs 
can  ruin  the  wonderful  climate  of  Catalina  Island. 
Nature  does  not  cater  to  evil  conditions.  The  sun 
and  the  fog,  the  great,  calm  Pacific,  the  warm 
Japanese  current,  the  pleasant  winds — these  all  have 
their  tasks,  and  they  perform  them  faithfully,  to 
the  happiness  of  those  who  linger  at  Catalina. 

Avalon,  the  beautiful!  Somehow  even  the  fire 
that  destroyed  half  of  Avalon  did  not  greatly  mar 


TALES  OF  FISHES 


its  beauty.  At  a  distance  the  bay  and  the  grove 
of  eucalyptus-trees,  the  green-and-gold  slopes,  look 
as  they  always  looked.  Avalon  has  a  singular  charm 
outside  of  its  sport  of  fishing.  It  is  the  most  delight- 
ful and  comfortable  place  I  ever  visited.  The  nights 
are  cool.  You  sleep  under  blankets  even  when  over 
in  Los  Angeles  people  are  suffocating  with  the  heat. 
At  dawn  the  hills  are  obscured  in  fog  and  sometimes 
this  fog  is  chilly.  But  early  or  late  in  the  morning 
it  breaks  up  and  rolls  away.  The  sun  shines.  It  is 
the  kind  of  sunshine  that  dazzles  the  eye,  elevates  the 
spirit,  and  warms  the  back.  And  out  there  rolls  the 
vast  blue  Pacific — calm,  slowly  heaving,  beautiful, 
and  mysterious. 

During  the  summer  months  Avalon  is  gay,  color- 
ful, happy,  and  mirthful  with  its  crowds  of  tourists 
and  summer  visitors.  The  one  broad  street  runs 
along  the  beach  and  I  venture  to  say  no  other  street 
in  America  can  compare  with  it  for  lazy,  idle,  com- 
fortable, pleasant,  and  picturesque  effects.  It  is 
difficult  to  determine  just  where  the  beach  begins 
and  the  street  ends,  because  of  the  strollers  in  bath- 
ing-suits. Many  a  time,  after  a  long  fishing-day 
on  the  water,  as  I  was  walking  up  the  middle  of  the 
street,  I  have  been  stunned  to  a  gasp  by  the  startling 
apparition  of  Venus  or  Hebe  or  Little  Egypt  or 
Annette  Kellermann  parading  nonchalantly  to  and 
fro.  It  seems  reasonable  and  fair  to  give  notice 
that  broadbill  swordfish  are  not  the  only  dangers  to 
encounter  at  Avalon.  I  wish  they  had  a  policeman 
there. 

But  the  spirit  of  Avalon,  like  the  climate,  is  some- 
thing to  love.    It  is  free,  careless,  mirthful,  whole- 

266 


AVALON,  THE  BEAUTIFUL 


some,  restful,  and  serene.  The  resort  is  democratic 
and  indifferent  and  aloof.  Yet  there  is  always  mirth, 
music,  and  laughter.  Many  and  many  a  night  have 
I  awakened,  anywhere  from  ten  to  one,  to  listen  to 
the  low  lap  of  the  waves  on  the  beach,  the  soft 
tones  of  an  Hawaiian  ukulele,  the  weird  cry  of  a 
nocturnal  sea-gull,  the  bark  of  a  sea-lion,  or  the  faint, 
haunting  laugh  of  some  happy  girl,  going  by  late, 
perhaps  with  her  lover. 

Avalon  is  so  clean  and  sweet.  It  is  the  only  place 
I  have  been,  except  Long  Key,  where  the  omnipres- 
ent, hateful,  and  stinking  automobile  does  not  ob- 
trude upon  real  content.  Think  of  air  not  reeking 
with  gasolene  and  a  street  safe  to  cross  at  any  time! 
Safe,  I  mean,  of  course,  from  being  run  down  by 
some  joy-rider.  You  are  liable  to  encounter  one 
of  the  Loreleis  or  Aphrodites  at  any  hour  from  five 
till  sunset.    You  must  risk  chance  of  that. 

So,  in  conclusion,  let  me  repeat  that  if  you  are  a 
fisherman  of  any  degree,  and  if  you  aspire  to  some 
wonderful  experiences  with  the  great  and  vanishing 
game  fish  of  the  Pacific,  and  if  you  would  love  to 
associate  with  these  adventures  some  dazzling  white 
hot  days,  and  unforgetable  cool  nights  where  your 
eyelids  get  glued  with  sleep,  and  the  fragrant  salt 
breath  of  the  sea,  its  music  and  motion  and  color 
and  mystery  and  beauty — then  go  to  Avalon  before 
it  is  too  late. 


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